


Faith to His Green

by Blahzor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Time Skip, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blahzor/pseuds/Blahzor
Summary: Before starting at Garreg Mach, Byleth had prepared for many a situation.Dealing with a flirtatious noble wasn’t one of them.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 33
Kudos: 109





	1. Tribulations and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Byleth's efforts to adjust to monastery life, Claude goes out of his way to get him a gift. 
> 
> Byleth doesn’t know what to make of it.

_**Harpstring Moon  
** _ _**Year 1180** _

“Good morning, Professor!” Ignatz was first to arrive in the classroom. “What’s on the schedule for today?”

Byleth tried putting on a smile—he failed miserably. A string of sleepless nights had left circles darker than Jeralt’s suspicions. Never before had he been responsible for student guidelines, let alone the acclimations of Garreg Mach: schedules, ceremonies, the reverence of a Goddess, his newfound role as Professor. Rhea’s call to duty was wearing him ragged.

“Battlefield tactics,” he said blandly. There were rumors swirling around his personality— _I bet he’s a statue possessed_ was his particular favorite—and he had little desire to prove them wrong. “The options to take when you’re surrounded.”

Ignatz twiddled his thumbs. “That sounds...kind of scary.”

“Yeah, Ignatz, that’s the point.” Lysithea, ever the humble empathic as she swung open the doors. “When you’re on the frontlines, things could always go south. It won't be like the mock battle.”

He sighed. “Guess you’re right. I’ll have to get used to it.”

Byleth held his own, scratching at the chalkboard. He released it under the booming cover of, “Aw, cheer up, Ignatz! Hey, I got some extra food in my bag. You hungry?”

“Raphael, not everyone's always hungry like you,” Hilda pointed out. “Besides, Ignatz, tactics is an _easy_ class. Aren’t you glad we’re not learning anything important?”

Byleth turned back. “I wouldn’t—”

“Trivial, at best.” Lorenz rolled his eyes as he chose a seat in the back. “I insist that you spare our dear professor from this pitiful exchange.”

Hilda shot him a dirty look. “Like you’re any better. Right, Marianne?”

“Oh. Right,” Marianne agreed, with the expression of someone who had no intention of agreeing. “Sure.”

"And who are you to—"

 _“Enough.”_ Byleth clapped his hands. “All of you. Sit.”

They immediately obeyed (aside from Leonie, who gave him a nod then obeyed), their attention caught by his “teacher voice”, as Hilda were to put it. Dull moments were a rarity when it came to the Golden Deer. Part of the reason they drove him mad. At least their results from the Mock Battle spoke of great promise, as did their undeniable potential. Perhaps they could still be salvaged from the rocks.

Well, most of them anyway. The exception seemed to be missing as Byleth gauged the classroom. “Has anyone seen Claude?”

“He said he'd be coming late,” according to Hilda. 

"Why?"

"I think he had something important to do?"

“Knowing Claude, it’s naught but an excuse,” Lorenz said bitterly. “I’m sure he just overslept.”

Byleth had to shut his eyes and _very slowly_ count to ten before mustering the strength to ask, “Does anyone have an idea? Today’s lesson starts in two minutes.”

Shaking of heads, shoulders being shrugged, a blank expression for Raphael as he daydreamed of the dining hall. Except for Marianne, who seemed to be staring at the floor.

“Marianne.” He hated calling her out. Watching her flinch so terribly. But such was the duty of a professor. “You seem distracted. Is everything alright?”

“Yes! I’m, uh, I’m sorry. Professor.” She did not look up. “It’s just…”

“What is it?”

He could see the thoughts gathering. “You see, Claude…”

But she fell silent. Stuck between two different places. Byleth knew better than to chase her down, so he turned his head to the ceiling. “It’s fine,” he said, in the tone of someone who very much did not believe it was fine. “We can start without him.”

He drew his attention to the chalkboard. Circles and arrows and commands that Jeralt had taught him through the years. Not a difficult lesson by any means. One that Claude could eagerly learn on his own, had he not mastered it already. So why was it bothering him that he could not hear his voice saying—

“Hey, Teach!”

He was standing in the doorway. Smile warm, hands in his pockets. “Sorry I’m late. Had to run a few errands.”

“You should have warned me," Byleth said.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Claude said, undampened, “but this was a last-minute thing. And to reiterate: _super_ important.”

“Important enough to miss class?” 

He raised his hands. “Look, I’ll stay late if you want. Or you can put me in detention. Give me a mark. Do whatever it is that big, bad Teach has to do.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Byleth gestured to the front of the room. “Have a seat.”

“I get to sit in front?” he said. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

“Claude,” Lysithea interrupted as he strode his way up, “you should really take this more seriously—”

“Teach.” He did not make for his desk. Instead, he stopped before the podium, arms held behind his back. “Actually, can I talk to you for a sec?”

Byleth stared. “Now? Can’t this wait?”

“Nope.” He spoke with such conviction that Byleth found himself convinced, if for a moment. “This is urgent. It’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

“We’re about to begin.”

“I know. Trust me, I wouldn’t be asking if this wasn’t big.” He leaned forward, hands pressed atop the podium. “We can speak outside if you prefer. Please?”

His intentions were obscured, the smirk sharp and esoteric. But gambling the last bits of Byleth's sanity seemed like a losing battle, if not a pointless one. Claude would rather take a blow to the face than bend his ways.

“Fine,” he said. He nodded to the rest of the class. “We’ll be back shortly.”

“What—hey!” Hilda piped up. “Where are you guys going?”

Maybe it was his imagination, but Byleth could have sworn Claude flashed her a look as they walked past. Whatever it was, Hilda seemed oddly satisfied. “Ohhh.”

* * *

“So, what is it?” They stood a short distance from the classroom, near the courtyard entrance. Byleth swept back and forth, making sure no one was within hearing distance before continuing, “Did you receive intel? Are bandits planning to invade?”

"Look at you, all on top of things." Claude let nothing slip. Byleth was reminded of a fortress. Cold, closed, the open gates looped to trap him. "But no, it’s nothing of the sort.”

“Then, what? Assassination attempt? Stolen church wares? Demonic beasts?”

“Demonic...what now?” His eyes widened. “Those actually exist?”

“Claude," he said sternly.

“Alright, alright, Teach. I know you’re a busy guy, so I won’t waste any more of your time.”

His hand slipped into his pocket. Out came a small box, the premises held together by a golden bow. Tiny enough to fit in his palm, large enough for Byleth to stare at it with a mixture of wonder and sheer terror.

“Here," he said. "I got you something special.”

But Byleth did not take it. “Is this another one of your schemes?” he asked.

“You really think I’m that bad of a person, huh?” Claude said, feigning hurt. “But, no, it’s not. It’s a present. Specifically from me to you.”

“Oh."

His thoughts stumbled on two left feet before leaping at: “But why? What is it?”

Claude gave him a wink. “It’s a little thank you for all you’ve done. I went out of my way to fetch it. Hence why I arrived so _fashionably_ late.”

“But you said this was urgent.” His gaze shot up. “Why now?”

“Well, you never stick around after class,” Claude pointed out. “Whenever I try to reach you, you’re already gone. Speaking of which...I don’t mean to change the topic, but where do you go, Teach?”

So his stealth had been lacking. Who else was aware? "Hilda told me she followed you once. Apparently, you vanished without a trace.”

Jeralt would be disappointed. "Is that so?" he said.

“Don’t tell her I told you, but yes. It’s like you disappear as soon as the day is over.” He reached his arms behind his head, stretching out. “I like a guy with mystery, but you’re a total enigma.”

“I’m sorry,” was Byleth's response.

“Don’t be. Everybody’s got their secrets, right?” he said. “Just take this, and we’ll call it even.”

Byleth immediately followed up, “I can’t accept this, Claude. I did nothing to deserve it.”

“Ever the modest role model,” Claude teased. “Come on, Teach. I made a fool of myself in front of everyone. The least you could do is take it.”

A period of time passed—Byleth was sure it lasted longer than it should have—before he warily removed it from Claude’s hands. It felt light, easy to balance. His first hope: a vial of magic to make this whole ordeal disappear.

“Thank you, Claude,” he mumbled. “I appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I could do.” He placed a hand on Byleth’s shoulder. “You’re special to me, Teach. To all of us. Don’t forget that.”

* * *

The problem was Byleth only wished to forget.

Instruction that day was a tiring skirmish. Lysithea and Ignatz must have drunk something peculiar to have such inquisitive minds on a Monday morning. With Raphael cursing over his studies and Hilda complaining to no one in particular, the grueling hours had likely shaved a few years off of his life.

And Claude, Claude was…

“If they’re invading from the east and we’re stranded on the hill, we should retreat to the base—right here—and fire from afar.” Claude turned to him, mischief into thin air. “The armored units can guard the flank in case we’re surrounded. We’ll send someone nimble to lure the enemy in. Once they’re close, we strike with the cavalry.” Green eyes bored into his. “Is that the right approach?”

“Correct,” Byleth said with a nod. “Well done, Claude.”

He returned the gesture. “Couldn’t have done it without your guidance, Teach.”

That smile. It lingered long in his mind after the day had reached its end and he gathered up his materials, as quickly as he could maneuver. Dodging questions from Hilda and Leonie (in completely separate subject matters), he stalked out of the classroom, his boots leaving subtlety to the wind, and curved immediately to his right. Then slipped behind the pillars, easing between their gaps, until he reached the gates to the courtyard. Then slithered in. The trimmed hedges served well as a blockade. 

The last of them were walking in his direction. They broke formation—most to their dorms, a few to the dining hall—and left his sight. He released a breath. Only after sneaking around the classrooms twice (one can never be too safe) did he make for his dorm, gently shutting the door closed.

“Geez, took you long enough!”

He nearly jumped into the wall. “Sothis?”

“Yikes. You’re awfully on edge. Still not used to the sound of my voice, hm?” 

He wiped a hand over his face. “Today was a long day.”

“I can tell. You seem quite stressed,” she pointed out. “And waiting so long for your students to disperse? Taking extra trips to throw them off your tail? What could _possibly_ be on your mind that you wish to keep secret, _Professor?”_

“Nothing.” He slung his cape over his chair. “It’s nothing worth talking about.”

“Could it be his smile? Those smoldering eyes?” she crooned. “Oh, no, wait. I know what it is. It’s how he calls you ‘Teach’, isn’t it?”

“Stop, Sothis.” It was not her first time trying his feelings. He knew it would not be the last. “It has nothing to do with him.”

“Give it up, Professor.” She saw the cards in his hand. She carried that satisfaction as she continued, “You think I haven’t noticed? How you give him special attention?”

"What special attention?"

“I see you stealing glances when no one’s looking. Or how you get ‘extra strict’ whenever he’s around. Truly intriguing.” Was she humming to herself? “Admit it. You’ve grown fond of that boy!”

“That's not true.” He was more grateful than ever for the privacy of his room, lest someone thought he might need a visit to the medical ward. “Nothing of the sort exists."

“You know that it does.”

“You have no proof of that.”

"Ugh, you can be so frustrating!” Sothis fumed. “Even if you wish to save face in front of your students, why me? I’m stuck inside your head! There’s no point in denying it.”

Byleth's response: struggling to register how the day could have taken a turn for the worse. He trudged to his desk. Rays of gold fell through the blinds, casting him under shards of light. “Because,” he said, searching for a way out, “I refuse to.”

“And why is that?”

“He’s joking around.” With one hand, he perused through his journal. He reached a page of personal notes, dedicated to each student; one was substantially larger than the others. “That’s how Claude acts. Facetious as they come.”

“You don’t know that!”

“It doesn't matter how I feel.” The next page was his diary, laid bare, but why torture himself? “This, too, shall pass,” he continued, flipping on. “And things will be normal.”

“Boo. How boring.” He could practically feel her hovering over his shoulder, seething with disapproval. “You can be so stubborn.”

“So it seems."

“Wait. Didn’t he give you something? A gift. Earlier today.”

He felt it knocking against his thigh. “I completely forgot.”

“Sure you did,” she said, unconvinced. “Well, don’t keep us waiting. Open it up!”

“I…” he began as he reached in, then set the gift atop his desk. He'd rather chuck it out the window. What lied in wait was irrelevant; better to be kept unknown than to expose him a fool. “I don’t know. Are you sure?” 

“Oh, for goodness sake, just do it!” Sothis cried. “It’s a gift, not a promise ring!”

“...Fine.” As if it were a monster baring sharpened teeth, he slowly reached out. Untied the golden ribbon. Peeled back the wrapping paper. And lifted the lid before peeking inside.

Even Sothis seemed taken aback. “It’s...a teacup?”

“Looks like it.” He lifted it out, turning it over in the dying sun. The gilded detailing was intricate, the rim lined with gold. Wreaths of painted vines circled the base. He weighed the porcelain between his fingers.

“This seems expensive,” was his conclusion.

“No doubt,” Sothis said. “Look closer. There’s a crest embedded on the side.”

“House Riegan,” Byleth realized. “Professor Hanneman told me about it.”

“Ugh, that was _so_ boring,” Sothis complained. “And he locked us in his office! How is that even allowed? Well, no matter. This belonged to your student, correct? I wonder why he mentioned going out of his way to get it?”

“I can’t begin to fathom.” Byleth gently placed it back in its container. What was all of this for? 

Three cherished seconds of peace before Sothis said, “Hold on, now. There’s something else in the box.”

His eyes locked on something wedged in the side, as if jammed in at the last second.

“Looks like a package of tea leaves,” Sothis observed as he pulled it out. “‘Leicester Cortania’, huh? And look, attached to it. That’s a note!”

“That’s...expensive as well.”

“You’re missing the important part!” He actually hadn't, but he lacked the heart to correct her. “Read the note.”

“Must I?” he said.

“Is that even a question?” Sothis snapped. “Read it!”

Shaking ever so slightly, he unwrapped the crumpled slip of paper. Fanciful script covered the page, scrawled in black ink. “This is his handwriting,” Byleth observed, none too happily.

“You would know.” Her words were an accusation. It bothered him more than it should have. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Carefully, he flattened the sheet between his fingers. His eyes fell closed. Knowing no amount of delay would magically change the words on the page, he opened them as he began, “ _To my dearest Teach—”_

“Ew,” Sothis said. “Who talks like that?”

He ignored her as he continued. “ _I know you have some trouble with opening up. Hope this can help with that. Always here for you. Claude."_ He blinked. “That’s it.”

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Sothis huffed. “Where’s the grand proclamations of love?”

“There are none.” The gnawing sense of disappointment was his imagination. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Now, wait a minute! He wants you to open up, right?” Sothis said. “Perhaps he’s pushing you to set up time for tea.”

“Tea is not my biggest concern at the moment.”

“Maybe it should be.” Excitement crept back into her voice. “I know! You should ask to drink tea with him.”

“Sothis.”

“Doesn’t that one lady professor do it with her students all the time? Manuela?”

“ _Sothis.”_

“That way, you won’t have to mope by yourself. _And_ you get to talk to him.” She sounded pleased with herself. “Look at me, setting you up for success!”

“No, you’re not.” He crumpled the note in one hand. The other gripped the edge of his desk. “Nothing has changed. And we’re not discussing this now.”

“Why ever not?” Sothis asked. “You have a reason to—”

“Because I said, _no_.” Dark brown hair. Mischievous eyes. The wink he commanded like a battalion. “I can’t do this right now. Please, stop.”

She mused it over. “I see.” Her disappointment was difficult to spare. “I can tell that you are firmly set in your ways.”

“That’s correct.”

“Very well, then.” She gave an aural depiction of resting upon a chair, one cheek in her palm. Her way of emphasizing, “It appears that I have no way of convincing you otherwise. Deal with this on your own as you wish.”

“I will.” He faced the teacup one last time. Resting in its carriage. “I’ll be fine.”

She said nothing, equally aware of the cracks in his lie. Which sat perfectly fine with Byleth as he stomped to the door, locked the handle, and proceeded to brood until the late hours of the night, wondering when everything had grown so complicated. When all of the colors had lost faith to his green.

* * *

To Byleth’s pleasant surprise, life at Garreg Mach had smoothed to a calm over the passing weeks. The fishing pond gave him somewhere to relax, the training grounds to release his frustrations. Even praying at the cathedral had felt less out of place; he would have to thank Dorothea and Ferdinand for distracting the churchgoers with their attempts to outdo one another. Dimitri and Edelgard had been happy to provide rounds of advice— _ignore Claude_ was a common one—and Rhea had since granted him her stamp of approval, much to Seteth’s dismay.

But everything fell away when he saw him. 

“Hey, Teach! Great work routing those thieves today,” he would say after their first mission.

“Wow, is there anything you can’t do?” he would praise after cooking a meal together.

“You let me know if they give you trouble. I’ve always got your back,” he would reassure whenever issues came up with the Golden Deer.

 _Reliable. Dependable._ They stood clear, though they certainly weren't the only qualities. No matter how distracted, he was finding Claude latched onto every thought, a bandit to bullion. None of his prior training could suit the tempest. How was he to ignore it as the days came and went? 

“You don’t.” Sothis broke through his thoughts on a Sunday afternoon. “You stop avoiding it and confront it.”

“Not so easy,” Byleth muttered, the blank agenda mocking him. Somewhere along the way, their schedules had become second nature. What was holding him back? 

“It is.” Her patience had grown thin. “There’s no point in playing this cat and mouse game. He’s interested in you—”

“He isn't.”

“Like I said, he’s interested in you,” she said, undeterred. “And you’re interested in him. Find a way to connect. Problem solved.”

“I’m not interested in him.”

She groaned. “Not this again.”

“Yes, again.” At wit’s end, he slammed the journal closed. “There’s nothing to consider.”

“Mhm. That must explain why you stare at that teacup half the time.”

The blood drained out of his face. “How did you—”

“You forgot again, didn’t you?” she said. “I’m you. You’re me. There’s nothing that’s not shared between us. Though you haven’t been very subtle about it either,” she tacked on at the end.

He scowled at the wall. “I haven't said anything.”

“You don’t have to. Seems like you enjoy torturing yourself.”

Byleth made the decision not to grace her with a response as he got to his feet. Not that he needed to, for she followed up, “Where are you going?”

“Outside,” he said curtly. “To get fresh air.”

He swung the door open, eager to escape. Except someone was waiting on his doorstep, eager and concerning.

“Oh! Professor!” Hilda had her fist raised expectedly. “I was just about to knock. You have splendid timing.”

 _That’s a positive way of putting it_ , Sothis thought. _Suspicion one,_ Byleth thought.

He asked, “What do you need, Hilda?” 

“Well, I was hoping to find some time for us to chat.” Her voice was elevated by an objective. Suspicion two. “You’re normally so dark and moody. I think it’s time we got to know each other better!”

“Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing’s the matter,” she said. “What’s wrong with wanting to spend time with my teacher?”

“Usually there’s a reason for it.”

“Well, not for me.” She raised her conjoined hands. “Come on, what do you say? Care to join me for a walk? It’s nice weather outside today. Much better than sticking in that stuffy room of yours.”

He supposed he had no right to argue. “Very well,” he caved. “I was about to embark anyway. Let’s go for a walk, Hilda.”

“Oh, wow. I have _really_ good timing.” She was quick to head down the steps. “Well, come on then!”

There was no need for Sothis’ mumbling of _something’s not right_ for Byleth to feel apprehensive as he followed. Their walk led them around the monastery, from the courtyards to the dormitories. The fishing pond, the entrance hall, and eventually the stables, the horses braying their excitement over being fed. Her mouth ran perpetual, the ramblings traveling through topics of little importance. Boys that bothered her, the stress of a brother so renowned, something about Lorenz stepping on her toes. It was a matter of time before the tangents congealed together and made his head spin.

“And _that’s_ why I told him to leave me alone,” she pouted. “Can you believe it? I ask for his help just once, and he keeps coming back to haunt me!”

“That’s awful,” Byleth answered robotically for the third time. He searched his surroundings. The stables stared back. Nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but what was the point of this, Hilda?”

“What do you mean?” she wondered innocently. “We’re just walking.”

He had lost count by now. “If that was all," he said, "we wouldn’t have followed a deliberate course.”

She frowned. "What are you talking about?”

“We ended up at the stables. Why is that?”

“I...just missed the horses?”

“Then why did you lead me in a horseshoe, instead of heading straight here?”

Her mouth fell closed. “Oh,” she said. “Uh, well…”

“If you wanted to throw me off,” Byleth said, softly scratching at one of their bowed manes, “you should have led me aimlessly. At the very least, to ward off suspicion. But you didn’t. Either you lack a disposition for directions, or you were buying time.”

“If I said it was the first one,” she began hesitantly, “would you believe me?”

“No.”

“Figures.” She tossed her head back. The corners of her lips turned up. “Nothing ever slows you down, does it, Professor?”

An image of brown hair, curled. “I don’t know about that.”

“Okay, fine. You got me.” Without so much as a glance to the horses she claimed to miss, she spun on her heel. “Come on.”

He snapped up. “Where are we going?”

“To where we’re actually supposed to be,” Hilda answered. “Hurry along now! We don’t want to be late.” 

_Late to what?_ He ran after her. “Hilda,” he called out, “what is going on?”

“What’s that one thing Claude would always say, Professor?” Hilda mentioned, pacing faster than Byleth knew a figure of spoiled nobility was capable of. She swerved through a gate. “‘My secrets belong to me?’ Or something?”

“‘My secrets are my own.’ ” He said it before he could stop himself. And immediately regretted it. “Er, I think that’s what it is.”

“Huh.” Now she looked back. “Is that right.”

“Why are you giving me that look?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said in singsong. They strode past the gazebo, the students staring at his attempts to keep up, inquisitive as to what could have their fabled professor in such a hurry. “Nothing at all.”

“ _Hilda.”_

“What? You said it yourself! ‘My secrets are my own,’ ” she imitated, mockingly deeper. “Besides, we’re almost there. _Deep_ breaths. You really need to let loose sometimes, you know?”

“I...well…”

“Shh!” They were standing before the last courtyard. Right by the Officer’s Academy, he realized, familiar to the times he had hidden away. “Keep quiet, now.”

He tried peeking past her. “What are we waiting for?”

“A certain _someone_ to finish their conversation,” she said. “And it looks like my timing was perfect, as usual! Our little detour did the trick.”

Byleth opened his mouth. Then, upon realizing there were no answers in wait, let it fall back closed, giving in to fate and whatever wayward plan Hilda had up her sleeve.

“‘ _I bet you did an incredible job at the arena, Felix!’ ‘Why thank you, your Royal Highness!’ ”_ Her caricatures were terrible. “Blah, blah, blah, carry on, carry on, and...finally! He’s heading out!”

The questions clawed at his brain. Too many suspicions staining the cracks. Why did she sound so excited? Who was speaking to whom in the courtyard? Most importantly, why had he agreed to this in the first place?

 _I told you so,_ was Sothis’ telepathic response.

“That’s your cue!” She turned back, alight with excitement. “Go, go, go!”

“Go where?” Byleth exclaimed. “What am I to do?”

“Just get in there!” She ran behind and pushed him ahead. “Ask him to tea or something. You’ll figure it out!”

 _“_ To _tea?”_

He was shoved into the courtyard with a forceful grunt. The gates closed, nailing his coffin shut.

“Hilda!”

“What are you staring at me for?” The keys dangled from her hand as they taunted him. “I said, go to him!”

With the shrapnel in his throat, he faced the courtyard. And saw him standing there, stagnant in the center. Gold and black. All sharp in a soft field. Frozen in place. _He wasn’t expecting me either_ , Byleth realized. The exits were shut. No knights to call for assistance. What could he be—

He grinned. “Teach?”

He nearly bit his tongue in half. “Yes?”

“Well, what a surprise!” Claude said. “Didn’t expect you to be paying a visit. But I guess that’s what I like most about you. You always keep me on my toes.”

The words danced in unison with his thoughts, setting fire to false hope. _I can’t let this go on any longer_ , he thought. _This has to end now._

“So. Had a busy day so far?” Claude asked as he approached.

“Yes,” he said. “Very busy.”

“Yeah, I bet. You’ve got so much on your plate; I can’t imagine what Rhea must be dishing out to you every week.” He looked up to the cloudless sky. “Plus you got all of the Golden Deer bothering you. You must be at the end of your rope.”

 _That’s not why._ “A bit, yes.”

He chuckled to himself. “Have I ever told you you impress me?”

That stopped him in his tracks. “I do?”

“Oh, definitely. Ask anyone in the house—most of the conversations revolve around my praises for you.” He paused for a moment, then continued with, “Aside from that, well…”

“Well what?”

Another pause. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“I see.” More questions spiraled up, like vines on the courtyard walls. Yet all Byleth said was, “There’s no need to praise me.”

“Ha! That’s just like you, Teach,” he said lightly. “You can’t accept a compliment, even though you deserve all the ones you get.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Claude glanced his way. “I am.”

 _Again_. The fire grew in size, burning through the air in his lungs. He resorted to staring, his mind grasping for a thread to pull as Claude mulled him over, intentions unreadable. _Say something._ He was not sure if the voice belonged to him or Sothis. _Don’t just leave him standing._

“So, Teach.” Relief as Claude broke the silence. Only to be torn away as he said, “I never got to ask—how’d you like the gift?”

“Oh.” He searched through his thoughts. “It's a very nice teacup, Claude. Thank you.”

“That’s relieving. I was afraid you'd find it pretentious." There were lots of things Byleth had found. Revolving around him, so no point in sharing. “Wrangling it out of my mother’s hands was an ordeal, but I’m glad it was worth it.”

“Your mother?” Byleth wondered, the vines too tall to be snipped. “It didn’t belong to you?”

“Not exactly. My family has its fair share of heirlooms, but most of them were inherited by my mother.”

“I thought your mother had left Leicester.”

“She did, but it gets more complicated.” His tone flatlined, as was often the case whenever Claude spoke of family. “As you know, my uncle Godfrey was set to replace my grandfather as Leader of the Alliance. Before his unfortunate passing, that is. Tiana, on the other hand, had her destiny in line for the Princess of House Riegan.” He crossed his arms. “It was a clever power play—one child sits at the head, another flaunts the wealth and lives in the hearts of the people. With that strategy, House Riegan was destined to keep its grip for decades. But I guess that must not have sat right with my mother, seeing as she left for Almyra. And she, well...she took most of the wares along with her.”

“And her father approved?”

“Are you kidding? He was furious.” His smile widened. “‘She stole the pride of House Riegan!’ he would say. Probably cost him a fortune too, but it’s not like money was ever an issue.”

“So how did it end up in your hands?”

“Simple. I sent her a letter.” He raised his chin in thought. “Well, more like a few letters. She doesn’t easily let things go, that one, but a little sweet talking and a bit of gold later, and she arranged a messenger for delivery.”

Byleth didn't know where to look. Certainly not ahead of him. “And that's how it ended up with me," he said.

“That’s the story.” The strands of his hair bounced slightly as Claude shook his head. “Sorry to bore you with the details, Teach. I normally don’t ramble on like that.”

“No. I’m sorry.” He lowered into a bow. “I am not worthy of such an important heirloom.”

“One of many, I’d like to reiterate," Claude rebutted cheerfully. “If you’re worried about that, don’t be. Tiana has enough in her collection to spoil a griffin.”

“Even then, I don’t—”

“I trust you to put it to good use. As long as you do that, I’ll be more than satisfied.” He took a step closer. “You are going to use it, right?”

“Er,” Byleth said, suddenly aware that he and Claude were very much entirely alone, “we'll see.”

“Hm. That's not too reassuring.” Claude was swift to close the distance between them. His hand clasped around his. “Come on, Teach. Promise me you’ll try to open up more.” He searched him over, deep enough to strand Byleth in an even larger hole. “The Golden Deer need a strong leader, and I need someone I can trust.”

“Someone to trust?”

“Being a professor means more than instructing well. It’s about setting an example, right?” he said. “So, how can I trust you if you keep closing yourself off?”

 _He’s right_. “Very well, Claude,” he said, trying to ignore the warmth outside his gloves. How close he stood by his side. His eyes, making the grass quiver with jealousy. “I’ll make use of your gift. You have my word.”

Claude nodded. “Thanks, Teach. It means a lot.”

He let go of his hand. Then made to leave, shoes silent over the grass. Byleth’s gaze followed as Claude crossed the tiny field. Passed the benches. Swatted at the butterflies hovering close. Until he turned at the gate, gold beneath the sun, and asked, “Is there anyone you have in mind?”

 _Tell him!_ “What do you mean?”

“Anybody catch your eye?” His tone was playful. “A cute girl, maybe?”

 _Tell. Him._ “Er, no. No one comes to mind.”

“Really? That can’t be it.” Why was he dragging this on? Could he have suspected something? _Does he know?_ “There are so many girls at the monastery. If Sylvain can get with someone, then you have no excuse.”

Byleth wished the ground would swallow him whole.

“I see you hesitating.” Even his teasing was cause for weakness. “You can tell me, can’t you? Whatever happened to opening up?”

_For Goddess’ sake, tell him!_

“I…”

“Whoa. Teach, are you okay?” He was starting to make his way back, concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Claude.” He sounded foreign. Was Sothis speaking on his behalf? “May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he said. “Is everything okay? I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No. You’re not.” Byleth sped through his thoughts, searching for a proper foothold. And found himself grasping at air. Sothis had disappeared, leaving him stranded in Claude's storm. “Claude. I have to ask you. Something.”

“Uh, you said that already, Teach.” 

“Sorry," he immediately pushed out. "What I meant was...I was wondering if…”

“Yeah?”

Each passing second was shrinking him in size. _This is it,_ he thought. The realization provoked his last bits of doubt. Teetering on the edge, he recited a silent prayer to the Goddess. Shut his eyes. And, with great effort, barely forced out the question under the mountain of emotions that had buried him alive:

“Would you like to grab tea with me sometime?”

Silence. Birds singing, grasshoppers chirping. Nothing to convince him that Claude was not staring him down, no better than the careless sinners he was clear to despise.

_As expected._

He did not open his eyes. He knew what awaited him. _The fool who leaps before he thinks,_ would be new Claude's line of thought. The way he saw his professor. Such was the price to pay for letting down Rhea, Jeralt, the eyes he wanted to avoid cutting into his.

Until his voice cut through the dark. “Sure.”

“Huh?”

A few feet away stood Claude, watching him. Smiling.

“You will?”

“Of course I will.” He looked amused. “Why wouldn’t I, Teach?”

“I...I didn’t expect you to…”

“Be interested?” A bark of laughter escaped him, more lyrical than the chapel choir. “Are you kidding? You’re the most interesting guy I know. I’d be a fool to pass up a chance to learn your secrets.”

Byleth refused to believe it. He was in battle, he had been struck by a lance, and Sothis was baiting his final breath as a form of divine punishment.

“You wish to learn my secrets?”

“Well, not just that, obviously,” Claude said. His earring caught on the sun, matching the sparkle of emerald. “I’m interested in learning more about you too.”

A quiet _oh_ was all Byleth could say.

“Look, I’d love to talk more about this, but I’m running late for a sparring session.” He held his chin. “Why don’t we plan for sometime next week? That is, provided that you don’t disappear on me again.”

“Yes.” The word slipped like water through his fingers. “Yes. Next week works perfectly.”

“Great. I’ll even arrange for some biscuits from the kitchen.” He added a wink for good measure. Byleth lamented the sleep he would not get that night. “I'm glad you picked me, by the way. In fact, I'll share a little secret as thanks. That tea I gave you? Cortania? It’s actually my favorite.”

Were Sothis to see him, he would never live down the embarrassment. “Oh. I’m—I’m glad.”

“Me too.” Byleth found himself facing the back of Claude’s head as he made to leave. He gave him a wave. “I’ll see you soon, Teach. I’m looking forward to it!”

Then he was gone. Byleth stood alone in the courtyard, his only company the trimmed hedges. He disturbed their peace with a heavy sigh. _Next week,_ he thought, his nerves dipping in waves. The thought was followed by another, much more obnoxious as she rose to the surface, right against good timing: “I _told_ you so.”

“Professor!” Another obnoxious voice, belonging to an ecstatic Hilda. “You did it! You _finally_ did it! Gosh, that was stressful to watch!”

“Hilda.” Would Rhea forgive him if he strangled one of his students? “That was completely uncalled for.”

“That took a lot of guts, Professor!” 

His stomach twisted. Hilda’s lips had not moved. Instead, Leonie had entered right after. “Can’t say it was the _smoothest_ invitation I’ve seen, but props to you for getting it out!”

 _Oh no._ “What are you doing here, Leonie?”

“Professor!” Ignatz. Ignatz had been there too. “You were so brave for speaking up like that!”

“I agree. However, for someone with such brilliant leadership, you are severely lacking in etiquette.” Lorenz and his unwarranted opinion came next. “Worry not, Professor. I would be more than willing to share my prized tricks of the trade.”

“That’s not what he needs!” Lysithea burst out. “Professor, I’m sure I can find a book in the library that can teach you how to flirt. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Forget all that. I say we celebrate!” Raphael hoisted a fist. “What do you guys say we grab some meat? Our professor deserves a toast!”

For once, Byleth found himself grateful for Marianne’s silence, aware of the nod and smile she sent his way. “I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. It was just like Claude had said. _Through it all, there’s always the Golden Deer._ “But thank you.”

Hilda let out a squeal. “Ooh, how exciting! Okay, first off Professor, you’re going to need—”

“Hilda. You’re staying overtime for all of this week.”

“Wait, what?" she said. "Seriously? But...but that’s so unfair!” She turned her back on him, oblivious to the first time Byleth found a smile encroaching his lips. “Ugh, this is why I don't offer help to people…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'll write a short story about Byleth and Claude!  
> Also me: decides to make it thousands of words long with multiple chapters
> 
> Ever since I started playing FE3H (just passed the time skip), I have come to 3 major conclusions:
> 
> 1\. I love this game.  
> 2\. I love the Golden Deer house.  
> 3\. I love Claude.
> 
> And so this short story was born, dedicated to the ship that could have been. It is intended to follow canon guidelines, though Byleth will be slightly less of a statue. Please enjoy!


	2. Roses Are Blue, or Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Deer decide to host a poetry competition. Claude ropes Byleth into participating.

_**Garland Moon  
**_ _**Year 1180** _

“So Professor, how was your date?”

“Hilda.” Byleth’s tone soured quicker than a sniper’s arrow. “It was not a date.”

“That’s what you said on the day of!” she said. She had her chin resting on top of her fists, her posture uncouth for a noble. But then again, when was Hilda ever one to respect tradition? “There’s no need to play coy. Was it romantic? Did he flirt with you? Did you guys _kiss?”_

“None of the above, unfortunately.”

“Is that so?” She rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Knock, knock! Who’s there? A lying professor, I bet!”

 _She’s so nosy,_ Sothis butted in. He fought back the urge to agree. “Hilda, we drank tea under the gazebo. There’s hardly anything worth talking about.”

“You mean, a daaate?”

“No.” The rest of the Golden Deer had left after instruction, as students were to do. Hilda, unfortunately, remained the exception to many a rule. “Is this why you wished to stay after class?”

“Yup. It’s not like you’re available any other time!” Hilda accused. “C’mon, Professor. It’s been, what? A week since you two met up?”

“That does seem accurate.” Though, to Byleth, it had been an entire winter’s passing. Not that Hilda needed to know. “Not long at all,” he reiterated.

“Be that as it may, you must have something to talk about.” She batted her eyelashes, a motion that Byleth secretly found comical. “You can spill your secrets to me. I’m trustworthy, I promise.”

“I would, if there were anything.”

“So you’re telling me you guys haven’t met up since?”

“Correct.” 

“Nothing else planned?”

“Nothing.”

 _“No_ updates?” She gave up on her attempts at coercion as she squinted, searching for a crack that held the answers. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Then I apologize for disappointing you.” He walked back to his desk, moving to place his materials in his knapsack. “I told you before, it was just tea. I’m afraid you set your expectations too high.”

Grating against his ears was her wooden chair, crying upon stone. “Oh, fine, Professor,” Hilda said as she got to her feet. “I’ll ask Claude then. But I’ll get the truth out of you one day. Just you wait!”

She walked off before he could testify his innocence, storming out of the classroom doors. A beam of sunlight managed to slip through, illuminating the dust. Byleth stared after her. “Would Claude tell her anything?” he asked the empty classroom. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No and no,” Sothis answered for him. “You know, you’ve surprised me. For a professor, you’re awfully good at misleading.”

* * *

“That is the entire story.”

“Seriously?” Claude said incredulously. “Hilda is something else, I tell you that.”

“Indeed,” Byleth said as he swirled the amber liquid in his cup. “But I imagine she will ask me again tomorrow. As she has for the last two days.”

“You’re good at keeping straight, Teach. I’ll admit, I would’ve played along before I knocked her down a peg.”

“I do not wish for further chaos.” He looked away. White blossoms had surrounded the gazebo pillars, clutching on for dear life, their beauty immemorial. Under the approaching evening, they shone in strokes of the sunset. “I have enough as is.”

“Hm,” Claude said. “That’s a shame. Does that include me as well?”

He forgot about the blossoms. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, nothing,” Claude mused. He proceeded to take a sip, slow and deliberate, giving Byleth just enough time to catch onto the flickers that were so very _Claude_. His murmurs of delight after a long drawl of tea. The slight blush to his cheeks. And how he would look up upon finishing, eager, the catches of his voice lilting as he said, “Teach?”

“Yes?”

“You've barely touched your tea.” He gestured to the teacup, affluent and excessive to Claude’s simple white. “Are you a fan of the Cortania? Most people in Leicester consider it our specialty. But I can bring a different strain next time.”

“No need. It’s my favorite as well.” It wasn’t, and the bitter tones forced him to swallow more biscuits than he was proud of. But Claude enjoyed it, so that was that on the issue. “I hope this isn’t taking too much of your time.”

“Not at all. I like spending time with you.” He leaned back in his seat. “Besides, it’s nice to get away from the rest of the house, especially with Lorenz trying to take charge. He’s not half the leader he thinks he is, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh?” Byleth said. “Is there something I should know about?”

“Huh? You don’t know, Teach?”

“Know what?”

“Did they not tell you about the event?” He frowned. “I figured they would have informed you by now.”

The glint in his eyes spoke differently. “They haven’t,” Byleth confirmed.

“That’s crazy.” He shook his head. “You should be the first to know. You’re the professor. And it’s absurd, really, how important this event is.”

“Claude—”

“Seriously, what could they be up to?”

“You could just—”

“Unacceptable! I’ll have to lecture them myself. To keep you in the dark over something _so_ significant—”

“Enough,” he said before he could hurl the teapot at his face. His irritable, beguiling, straight-out-of-a-painting— “Er, ahem. Please. Claude. Inform me of this event before I take matters into my own hands.”

“Ooh. I like it when you get assertive.” His wink did nothing to calm him down. “Alright, Teach, I’ll fill you in. The Golden Deer are planning to host a poetry slam of sorts in a week or so, likely in the Reception Hall. There’ll be a small feast, a prize for the winner, even a panel of judges.” At Byleth’s expression, he shrugged. “Look, don’t ask me, okay? It’s not the most innovative idea, but not everyone can be a professional schemer like myself.”

“Poetry performance?” Byleth said. “Why?”

“Lorenz brought it up. Said we’re in dire need of the noble arts. As if he has any idea what that means,” he added with a chuckle. “If you ask me, I think he just wants an excuse to show off.”

“Was he alone in this?”

“Lysithea agreed. I guess attending class five days a week isn’t enough for her massive brain.” He reached for his teacup. “Ignatz wanted to draw, but he’s the only one who can pick up a paintbrush, so that’s out of the picture—pun intended. Raphael’s excited about the feast. The rest had no opinion either way.”

“A poetry performance.” The more Byleth said it, the more ludicrous it sounded. “Do I have to participate as well?”

“Of course! We can’t have our own professor skimping out, can we?” Claude said cheerfully. “I expect great things from you, Teach. In fact, I hope you win that prize.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea," he said. He stared at the tablecloth. A poet? Him? “I’m not someone who writes.”

“Ah, fine. Win the prize for _me_ then.”

Clearly a joke, but Byleth would be lying if he said he didn’t feel _something_ flare up inside. He held back a groan. He must be weaker than he thought if it took a drop to change the tides. Then again, there was nothing stopping him from refusing. He had every chance to avoid humiliating himself, and every reason to do so. Inevitably Claude would try to convince him, he would walk away, and that would be the end of it.

But with the way Claude was looking at him… 

“I’ll see what I can do.” A poor move, and he knew it.

“Perfect.” Claude’s eyes closed as he took another sip, sinking into bliss. “You know just how to make a guy happy, Teach.”

 _I suppose that is one way of putting it_. “How are the biscuits today?” he brought up, eager to change the subject. “I requested they be baked with extra butter.”

“Looks like they forgot the jam.” Claude picked one up. Devilry wove through his smile. “Hey, want to see my impression of Lorenz? I don’t think I’ve shown you.”

“If you insist—”

“Hark, whatever shall I do?” He fell back, one hand to his forehead as if he were to pass out. “Prithee, I am a noble touched by the Goddess herself. How am I to swallow this horrid confection without the heavenly spread of a thousand sweet berries?”

Byleth had to hide his smile in his tea. “That’s enough, Claude.”

“Admit it, it was good.” Claude turned the biscuit over, then nibbled at the edges. “Eh, I don’t need the jam,” he said. “You’re sweet enough for me, Teach.”

Byleth immediately regretted his decision as he choked.

* * *

“You’re writing poetry? _You?”_

“Attempting to,” Byleth said, unable to hide his frustration. His quill stabbed holes in the parchment. “I can't seem to find a place to start.”

“Well, most people usually start with a shred of creativity.” It was at times like these that he wished he could stow Sothis within some iron dungeon, the chains wound tight. “Or some form of inspiration. Surely you can find something along those lines?”

“I must,” he muttered. Once again, he attempted to reach for a miracle. And came up empty-handed. Claude had mentioned something about a muse, but nothing would come to mind; he would have better luck striking for gold in Gronder Field. “No, Sothis, I will not write about him,” he said to her unspoken question. 

“It’s the one thing you _can_ write about,” Sothis said. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“There has to be something else,” he objected. Whether he was trying to convince Sothis or himself, he was not sure. “Perhaps I could write about the Goddess.”

“That is an option, yes.”

“Or something about the sunset? How breathtaking it looks?”

“Bleh, how cheesy!” Sothis said with disgust. “I bet you there will be five other poems about the same thing.”

“That is true.” He mindlessly dipped the quill in ink. Were there no other options to consider besides a noble of questionable motive? Nonsense; there had to be. “Perhaps the flowers? That is a topic others find fascinating, correct?”

“You’ve never written poetry before, have you?”

“I was a mercenary. Mercenaries don’t engage in creative arts.” 

Determined, he set the quill to paper. Black ink tainted the page, curving around the words. Not long after did he pause—followed shortly by the sound of parchment being torn to shreds.

“This is never going to work,” he said.

“' _Roses are blue?’_ ” Sothis repeated in disbelief. “That’s not even how the line goes.”

“You are not helping.”

“Yeesh. I did not think you would actually need it.” She groaned. “Tell me again why you’re taking this so seriously? Or participating at all, for that matter?”

“It took me by surprise,” Byleth said, pulling forth more parchment. “I didn’t expect such a turn of events. But here we are.”

“Then why bother?” Sothis asked. “Write something generic and be done with it.”

“Well—”

“Actually, never mind. I know why.”

Byleth opened his mouth to object, only to realize that the truth had coiled tightly around his throat. “I care about them,” he eventually said, weakly.

“I am aware. Specifically one in particular. Green eyes, clever mouth—”

“Sothis. Are you going to help?”

“Do I have a choice?" She sighed. "Looks like it falls on me to save the day once again.”

 _Once again?_ Byleth wondered, though he said nothing. He heard a loud noise, the sound of someone stretching. Followed by a humming, as if she were considering her options, before Sothis said, “Alright, I’ll help. As long as you agree to see reason.”

“See reason?” he said, bewildered. Seconds passed before he dropped the quill. “Sothis, I said no.”

“You know it’s the best way.” Even if that were true, why did she sound so satisfied? “This will help us both. Not to mention it’s your sole option, so you may as well give it a shot. You don’t have much to lose, do you?”

His hand curled into a fist. “If they found out, or I end up embarrassing myself...”

“You’ll likely end up doing that either way.” Goddess, how did he put up with her? “But if it works out, you might impress him. Or win that prize. Whichever works.”

“I said—”

“Give it a chance. It’s anonymous, isn’t it?” She made a tutting noise. “That’s my offer. I’ll help you so long as you make it easier on yourself. And me.”

He buried his face in his hands. “Write a poem. About Claude.”

“You’ll thank me for this.” Her voice rang confident. He wondered how. “He’ll be interested after hearing your prose. Or mine, I should say.”

At a loss, Byleth attempted to formulate a reason. An excuse. _Anything_ to make Sothis reconsider. The protest died on his lips, the waters of his will running dry. He looked over his room, drawn in colors of the late evening, as if there was a way out. His eyes settled on the teacup by the window. Under candlelight, the crest refused to be hidden.

_You don’t have much to lose, do you?_

“...Very well, Sothis.” He grimaced as he picked up his quill once more. “I will condone this only once.”

“You have no reason to worry.” He wished he could believe her. “Now, what’s the first thing you notice about him?”

His answer came quickly. “His eyes.”

“Of course. So, why don’t you try starting off with...”

* * *

“Welcome, one and all, to the Golden Deer poetry ball!”

Alois’s proclamation rang to mild applause. Byleth was one of the quieter ones as he sat alone on a bench, a distance from the rest of the class. The Reception Hall stood grand to their size, the tall windows framing the stars under the massive arched ceiling. A spread of moderate proportions stood in the back, from roasted pike to baked meats (kept out of sight by an enthusiastic Raphael). Chandlers hung bright from the ceiling, warding off shadows. Above all else was Alois, standing at the southern end, his voice booming as he continued, “Tonight is a grand celebration of all things epodic! Be it declarations to the Goddess. Potential love whispers. An ode to the thrills of battle. All are welcome as our students compete for the prize!”

Byleth felt a nudge in his side, followed by a familiar whisper: “Old man sure is excited, eh?”

“Claude?” he murmured as the other sat down. “When did you get here?”

“Just snuck in. Didn’t want to miss the catastroph—ahem _,_ the _grand_ _event_.” 

His wink agitated Byleth further. Nerves simmering, he cast his attention towards the students. At least Lysithea and Lorenz were captivated by the prospects; Ignatz and Marianne, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of vomiting. The feast was keeping Raphael heavily preoccupied, and Leonie seemed intent on avoiding the commotion as she tightened a bowstring. Not to his surprise, Hilda was nowhere to be found.

“Looks like we’ve got company.” Claude nodded behind him. “Even the other houses got their interest piqued.”

He blinked as he followed his line of sight. “That’s...Ferdinand? And Dorothea?”

“Dimitri and Sylvain, too.” Byleth saw his smirk grow as Dimitri’s frown deepened, the thread between them stretched taut as Dimitri chose a seat. Waved off Sylvain's complaints. Then cut short as Claude turned back around. “Guess they came to enjoy the show,” he remarked.

“Why?” was all Byleth could say. 

“Who knows? Could be to scope our arsenal of poets in the making. Or get a good laugh.” He lounged back, his hands reaching behind his head. “I know I am.”

“Are you not participating?”

“Of course not.” One eye flew open. “Otherwise I’d sweep the competition. That’s no fun.”

“If you’re not taking part,” Byleth asked in confusion, “then why come in the first place?”

“I told you, Teach. It’s for the Golden Deer.” Was he lying? Byleth could not tell; the lines had blurred when it came to Claude. “Our house wanted us all to take part, so that's what I'm doing. Sorta.”

“And joining us will be our lovely instructor, Manuela!” Alois wrapped up as he swept out his arm. “Professor, have you any words for our bright-eyed students?”

“Oh my,” Manuela said. “I suppose...I have high expectations for you all. I expect to be blown away. Give me grand, sweeping tales that would make my legs tremble.” Her lips pursed together, her voice dropping as she continued, “Most of all, I want to be dazzled by your beauty. In words, that is.”

“Great.” Another woman cut ahead, tone sharper than the arrows in her quiver. Her stance, the flicker of her gaze, a hawk searching for its prey—her experience ran well beyond her years, Byleth could tell. “I’m the other judge, Shamir. Maybe you’ve met me, maybe you haven’t. Just don’t embarrass yourselves, and I won’t regret wasting my time.”

“Ha. By the looks of it, Shamir's looking for target practice and Manuela a suitor.” Claude leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “This ought to be interesting.”

“But they’re handling students,” Byleth observed as Alois attempted to wrestle the conversation back into his court. “Are they always like that? So upfront?”

“You don’t get out much, huh, Teach?” Claude said. “Don’t worry, here’s what you need to know. Shamir talks a big game, but I heard she's a softie, provided she lets you in. Don’t count on it—most people get cut down before they do. As for Manuela, that’s how she is. There’s a reason she has a reputation.”

“For what?”

Claude shot him a sideways glance. “Flirting with her students.”

A chill crept in, colder than the air battering the walls. “And does the monastery scorn her for it?”

“Well—”

“Let us begin, shall we?” Alois gestured wildly, and Manuela followed up with a tiny knapsack. Shamir’s method of assistance involved her staring at the wall. “You’ve all placed your hard work in here, correct? I will draw at random, and our esteemed panel will perform them before delivering the verdict.” His excitement added to the absurdity, and Byleth had to pinch himself to confirm he wasn’t in a dream. 

He took his time reaching in, rummaging through the contents. And pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper. “And so we have our first entry!” he declared. He held it up to the light. “It appears to be...dedicated to the Goddess?”

A strangled noise came from Ignatz as he paled whiter than his canvas.

* * *

The night had moved slowly, more drawn out than expected. On multiple occasions Byleth had wished that he could push things along as he sat rigid, mired in the tension as it ebbed and flowed like a wave at sea. Claude, on the other hand, had continued to unwind to his content, distracted by the ripples of light on the walls. Every so often he would throw out his quips— _Dimitri must be having a field day_ was said multiple times—as he floated on air, right next to Byleth's descent into madness. With every pull of Alois’s hand he could feel his chest clench tighter, his worry plummet deeper. 

Gradually, the pool had lessened. There was Leonie’s ode to Jeralt, leaving her slightly embarrassed. Lorenz’s abstract tale of Gloucester, accompanied by his huffs of pride. Poetry had been too kind a word to describe Raphael’s contribution. (Combining “sweet” with “meat” was dreadful to the ears—a conclusion even Byleth could draw.) Lysithea’s had followed next, and right as Byleth thought that the Goddess might have answered his prayers did he notice the most recent draw, the parchment wrinkled to near incomprehension. A scrawl of black ran down its length.

“Oh,” Byleth whispered, his voice lodged in his throat. “That’s…”

“Here, I’ll take this one.” Shamir snatched the paper away before Alois could object. Her eyes ran down the page. “Oh,” she said as they widened. “Looks like we’ve got a letter. A romantic one.”

“Finally,” Claude said. “I’ve been waiting for something interesting.”

 _She’s going to read it._ The observation struck Byleth like a ballista’s bullet. His fingers dug into his skirt. The fact that he had known this was coming, that their ramblings would be propped on a pedestal, softened the blow by a margin; not nearly enough. Especially with Claude at attention, hanging on every word, eager to discern the culprit. Shamir, too, was a much better announcer than expected—each syllable she spoke hit harder than the last.

"‘When your colors fall to mine, renewal begins.’ ” Already he could feel something roiling within, vile and sharp. “The grass grow tall. Vines scrape high. And trees bloom in vain.’ ” She cleared her throat. “‘Desperate to tread upon your grounds. For you are too much shine not to be felt.’ ”

 _This was a mistake._ “‘Your light provides laughter, your rays bring warmth.’ ”

 _I can’t do this._ “‘Like war-torn scars, your voice leaves its mark.’ ”

 _I have to leave. Now_. “‘And when you call my name, water to arid, I blossom. Helplessly, I fracture, and I look to you.’ ” Shamir paused once more. The act was almost cruel. “To each prayer, I whisper longer. Bow further. In hopes you may—’ ”

“Wow. This is...something.” Claude sounded miles away. “Whoever this is dedicated to must be one lucky girl. Or guy.” His gaze was piercing, impossible for Byleth to ignore. “Right, Teach?”

He did not answer. He could have sworn he heard someone speaking loudly in his ear. Perhaps the voice had come from Sothis, screaming at him to stop as Byleth suddenly shot to his feet. Or maybe it could have been drawn to Claude’s sudden concern, the noble’s hand a second too late to stop him as his boots became possessed by a singular, overwhelming thought.

 _Escape._

Oblivious to their questions, he had paced down the hall. Past Alois, Manuela, and Shamir’s watchful eye, the poem ripe with profanities as it clung to her fingers. Only the cold was capable of pricking through Byleth’s senses as he made for the doors. Forced them wide open. Their dismayed whispers died on the wind as he stormed off and into the night, his demons trailing at the edges of his cape.

* * *

“Interesting.”

The poetry slam had continued after Byleth’s exit, though not for long. Most of the students had filtered out upon finish, judges included. Claude was alone for remaining where he stood, staring after the departure of a specific professor, eyes trained on the looming doors. “I wonder…”

“Claude.” Lorenz spoke from behind. Nothing about him sounded friendly. “I believe you have a bargain to uphold.”

“Sure,” he said. He mindlessly reached into his pocket. “Thanks for the hard work. Appreciate it.”

Lorenz did not return the sentiment as he whisked the coins out of Claude’s palm. “So, will you now enlighten me?” he said.

“What do you mean, Lorenz?” Claude asked the empty hall before him. “Great job on organizing, by the way. And winning the prize.”

“Yes, yes, your compliments are redundant,” he said, his hand tight around the pommel of the ceremonial sword. “But that’s not why I’ve come to talk to you.”

“Let me guess. You’re also here to brag about how you’re the noblest noble of all Leicester nobles.”

“Also redundant, but I appreciate the acknowledgment.” He shook his head. “You may as well fess up, Claude. Why did you ask this of me?”

“Ask what?”

“You know exactly what. To organize this foolish congregation and act as head of affairs. When this was your idea from the very start.”

“Was it, now?” Claude said, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “I can’t seem to recall.”

“You are incorrigible.” If he meant to drive Claude up the wall, then his attempts were failing miserably. “To request such a task from me in such a short amount of time. And then burden me with the responsibility!” He snorted. “I suppose I should’ve expected nothing less.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see the issue. You won, after all.” At last he shifted his gaze, sweeping past Lorenz. Instead, he watched a figure approaching from the back of the hall.

A little late, but he expected as much. “How did it go?” he called out.

“Ugh, it was _so_ stressful!” Hilda pouted as she came into view. “I think he almost ran into me. Wasn’t he supposed to stay until the end?”

“Life doesn’t always go as planned.” He held out a hand. “Did it get through?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did what you asked,” Hilda said as she held out her own. “Now, cough up.”

“What am I, a merchant to you?” He pulled out a second handful of gold. “Here. Thanks for getting it done.”

“Always happy to be of service,” she said cheerfully as she took it from him. “Let me know how it goes; I’m invested in this too, you know!”

She set off, humming a tune to herself. Right as Lorenz had opened his mouth, his questions left hanging. His expression, though— _that_ was one for the books. “Now what in Goddess' name—”

“Claude.” Dimitri’s scalding tone was worth it to see Lorenz continue his flustered streak. “Shouldn’t you be checking in on our professor? He appeared to be quite upset.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,” Claude said. “He’ll be fine. He’s a lot tougher than he looks; I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

But Dimitri remained unsatisfied. “You're the House Leader. You ought to be more responsible when it comes to such affairs.”

“Whoa, there," Claude said. "It’s not like I’m leaving him out to dry. He’s probably letting off steam. You do the same thing, don’t you?”

He did not take the bait. “You’re planning something, aren’t you? Is that why you invited me to attend?”

“Why, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, _Y_ _our Majesty.”_ At that, Claude had turned back ahead, ignoring the glares on the back of his neck. He grinned. “After all,” he murmured, watching the doors bathe under light, “a good schemer never reveals his hand.”

* * *

“Will you _slow down!”_

Byleth ignored her. There was one place to go, one place for him to return to. Nothing could spare him as the harsh winds turned his skin into sheets of ice. There was no one outside, the monastery equal to a graveyard. Only his shoes smacking on pavement led to noise, his scuffle driving away the cats nibbling at their tails. 

“You’re making a mistake.” Sothis, for once, sounded genuinely worried. “I know you weren’t prepared, but I don’t think—”

“Hush,” Byleth spat out. He turned to his right, past the courtyard gates. Shadows wove about the pillars—one of them looked an awful lot like Hilda, for some strange reason—and the Officer’s Academy was looming tall, blocking out the moon. The Golden Deer classroom stared at him as he walked past, a faithful reminder. 

He should have known better than to agree. Claude would no doubt put two and two together, and the rest would follow. Like Manuela, the rumors around him were bound to multiply. Consequences would be inevitable. Already they were cutting at his conscience; he would have to brace himself for the upcoming days. And he had yet to even consider what Claude must think. The thought was too painful, his worry too raw. 

“I can see that you’re mad,” Sothis said, her voice hushed. “If I am the cause, I apologize. I only wished to help.”

“You're not the one I blame.” Past the trees, up the stairs. “I thought I could—”

He came to a stop, right outside his room. His hand seized the handle. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Perhaps not,” Sothis lamented. 

Her agreement doused what little resolve he had left. _Foolish_ , he thought as he proceeded to enter, suddenly exhausted. The fight quickly bled out of him, as did his fear. _This is what happens when you don’t prepare. When you take risks without thinking. You never learn._

The door swung closed. Already he could sense solitude in waiting, sitting by the flickering candle, ready to greet him like the end of a sharpened blade. Not an unfamiliar feeling.

He moved towards the window before stopping in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” Sothis asked.

“Look.” He crouched down, reaching for the parchment that had narrowly avoided his shoes. “This wasn't here before.”

“A note? A letter?” Sothis said as he picked up the page. “It’s not a death threat, is it? That’s the last thing we need.”

“No.” He quickly perused it over. His jaw dropped. “This is…”

“Hm?” Sothis paused. “Wait, isn't that his handwriting?”

“A poem.” He was not aware that he had passed over her question. That she had asked a question. “It’s a poem.”

“A poem written by him? To you?”

“Yes.” When Byleth spoke again, his voice was but a murmur. “Here, at the bottom. ‘ _For Teach.’_ ”

“Oh. Hm. Would you look at that.” 

His eyes traveled up. Away from the page to rest on the candle, enduring the shadows. As the silence reached beyond its welcome, Sothis was the first to recover. “Well, what did I tell you? I didn’t doubt it for a minute.”

“This can’t be.” Gone was the cold, melting softly. Delicately. Spreading through him, like ink across the page, stoking flames out of the drenched cinders. “Is this why he didn’t participate? Then how did—”

“Does it matter why?” Sothis interrupted. “You have it. He wrote it for you. That’s what matters.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” He clutched the paper close to him. “I never would have expected. That Claude would...that he...” The words tapered off as he fell silent. “Sothis, what should I do?”

“Well, did you actually read it yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Then maybe read it first?” Sothis said, amused. “Come on, Mister Cynical. I know you’re dying to see what’s on there.”

“Are you sure?” he said. “Perhaps this isn’t the best time.”

“Then when would be most suitable?” The question was rhetorical, Byleth knew. “Read it, Professor. You deserve some solace after tonight.”

“I…” The flame appeared to nod in agreement. “Alright. Very well.”

Which was how Byleth had ended up seated by the edge of his bed, long after the cats outside had retreated to slumber. Reading aloud, hands near crumpling the page, with Sothis bearing witness. His lips moved slowly, forming music he never once expected to hear. Not from the Golden Deer, not from Jeralt, and especially not from a Leicester noble of questionable motive.

And if he thought that he had actually _heard_ said noble standing outside his door, sighing in relief before he snuck off into the night with a heartfelt chuckle, then Byleth told himself it was just a dream that had wandered too close for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I realized I am not good at writing poetry OTL


	3. Light Beyond Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught at a crossroads, Byleth struggles to find a bridge between his duties, his feelings, and a special occasion.

_**Blue Sea Moon  
Year 1180** _

Byleth could not have chosen a more inconvenient day to step outside.

Merchants across Fódlan had come to peddle their wares. Works to the Goddess, hooks of bait, blades that could slice wings off a butterfly. Knights and churchgoers had flocked to their stands, eager to taste something more material than ministerial. Too huddled for his liking. The marketplace was packed and the monastery was a battleground.

There was no avoiding the onslaught. He had waited for the first volley to pass. Then, found himself caught between a barter for bonemeal. His students offered no help: Lorenz asking for tea leaves, Raphael grabbing a hunk of meat larger than his ambitions, Lysithea's scream of "I can't find these books _anywhere!_ "

To his luck, there was one safe haven in the monastery. Better yet, he had reason to pay a visit.

"Manuela." He knocked out of habit. "May I come in?"

The door opened. "Oh, Professor." White, billowy robes blocked the view. "What a pleasant surprise. Come to avoid the commotion?"

"I'm sorry for the trouble."

"I can guess why you'd pay a visit." Her hands were clasped at her waist, praying for a messenger. Certainly not him? "Or is it for someone else? A girl _does_ get lonely, you know."

"I'm afraid not." Wrong words. She looked forlorn. "I'm here to check on him."

"Ah, yes, your precious Golden Deer,” she said with a sigh. "Come in. He's resting in bed."

Resting implied that he was healing. Byleth was able to breathe a bit louder, steps falling lighter. Seeing him sitting up, dressed in patient's clothing as he twiddled with a spare bowstring, was worthy of a prayer.

"Claude." He closed the distance as Manuela left, shutting the door behind her. "How are you feeling?"

"Teach!" he said, happier than a Hilda who shirked kitchen duty. "Glad you came to visit. Usually Manuela's my only company. She keeps telling the saddest heartbreak stories—I could use a change of pace."

"Your arm," he intruded. "How does it look?"

He pulled up the sleeve of his wool shirt. "Nothing I can't handle," he said. The dark purple tearing down his bicep oozed disagreement. "It's just a papercut."

"And your ribcage?"

Another lift. Another throbbing concern to add to his list of worries, the shape of a horseshoe. "Damn thing clipped the side," Claude noted—he was being generous there— "but I'll be alright."

"Has Manuela applied medicine? Do you need anything? I can find something from the visiting merchants. Or I can ask Rhea if—"

"Hold on. Yes to the first, no to the others. And there's no need to ask Rhea." Ever reasonable, the calm of Claude a constant at sea. "I'll be okay, Teach. I've gone through worse."

He _had_ gone through worse, and Byleth had seen it unravel like aged twine. Sothis, too, before she drew Divine Pulse and reversed two separate flows: time, and Claude's pooling red, the blood soaking through his corpse. And Lysithea. And Leonie, and the rest of them, their fates a crucial reminder of what he could do. What he couldn't do.

True, this was nothing like that. But the sight still tugged at imagination, more cruel than real. Promises of divine protection ran ubiquitous under its knives. He could already see the first cut.

"I want you to be careful," he said to Claude. "Next time, distract the enemy and hide. Avoid combat up close. Snipe from afar, if you must."

"Seriously?" he said. "But that's where I shine best! Up close and personal."

"You're injured." A sound reason, one he could chalk up to hide the excuse in his throat. "I'll not be hearing it. You'd be more useful to us if you weren't dead."

"I suppose I can't argue with that." Green eyes, searching. "You know, I can't understand you."

That made two of them. "How so?"

"You're cold. Calculating. On the battlefield, I'd hate to be your enemy. You play with everything you have, and you play to win." His smile was sly. "And in the monastery, it's not much different. You've heard the rumors, I'm sure. 'Ashen Demon.' 'Dealer of Death.' If it weren't for your heartbeat, I'd question if you were alive to begin with."

Perhaps he had no heart. Or perhaps Claude's words had meant to incite him instead of falling at his feet, like training arrows to knight's armor.

"I see," he said.

"But," Claude continued, "you're also caring. You look after us. Don't act like you don't—I saw you handle Hilda's sprained ankle. 'You're awfully gentle, Professor!' " he mimicked. "The fact that you're here proves my point."

"I do what I can." Automated response, for the mark embedded into Claude demanded attention. His fingers glided over it. Magic would not work on a closed wound. He would have to ask Manuela for something more direct. A wrap soaked in medicine, or pegasi blessing might—

"Hey, Teach? Are you listening?" Claude shook him gently. "Not that I'm not worth your time, but someone's here to see you."

"Hm?"

He stood in the doorway. Arms crossed, eyes soft, voice hardened around the accusation, "I knew you would be here."

Byleth rose to his feet. "Jeralt."

* * *

"How's life? It's been two months, hasn't it?"

Had it? Byleth must have lost track. Days were starting to blend inside the machine pump of responsibilities. Instruct students. Clear bandits. Restock supplies. Occasionally, join choir practice with man-of-the-Goddess Lorenz or fish _another one, the one I like_ for Flayn.

"It's been a while," was his response.

"I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to talk to you." They stopped, and Jeralt paused as a passing nun sent a strange look their way. Byleth was not surprised. The two greatest oddities of the monastery, convening in a hallway; the most divine followers would think twice before throwing in an extra prayer.

Jeralt quickly continued, "That's on me. Rhea's been running me into the ground with the Knights."

"There's no need to apologize," Byleth said. "I understand you're busy."

"Busy, but not a reason to ignore you." He stared at the ceiling. "You seem like you're adjusting."

"Not exactly." He rarely glazed over the truth when it came to Jeralt. This was no different. "Things have been confusing."

"Hm," he huffed. "I had a feeling."

"About?"

"I've heard things through the grapevine. Rumors, mostly. But you remember what I said about rumors, don't you?" _Each rumor holds a core of truth._ Byleth remembered well, driven into his head by blacksmith's hammer. A common thread for cases and robberies. Here, as well? "In fact, that's why I came to find you. I've heard things regarding you and...students."

Something seized him by the throat, painful and sharp. "What things?"

He planted his face in his palm. "No easy way—I'll get right out with it. There's talk that you're seeing one of them."

"Talk?" Byleth said. "Seeing? Who?"

"Rumors, mind you. They're rumors. They don't belong to anyone. They could be lies." His own bounced off the walls and missed them both. "But I wanted to let you know myself."

Byleth had to ask first, "Why?"

He groaned, the sound of a fatherly figure in over his head. "Look, I'm not here to tell you what to do, Byleth. Goddess knows your mother did enough of that when you were born." He had no recollection, but he took Jeralt's word. "But it wouldn't hurt to be cautious. We're being watched from every angle. Scandals, complaints, any gaps in the shield—they're all the same to them."

"'Them?' "

His eyes darted back and forth. "I told you before," he said quietly, "be careful around Rhea. The church in general. Signs of weakness could land you in hot water."

Byleth frowned. "Is this a sign of weakness?"

"Could be seen that way." His face changed tune, curving into a smile. "Though, I am glad you're getting to know your students. I'll admit, I was afraid you wouldn't adjust well. You've never been...how should I put this... _warm,_ I suppose."

"Jeralt—"

"But you can't let down your guard." Gone already, the warmth in his voice. "If something _were_ to come out of this, or Rhea and the church took it the wrong way, well, I don't need to iterate the consequences. I'm not one to talk, but if you want my advice, I say to end things." He watched Byleth carefully as he spoke. "Flings like this, they come and they go. Better to rest easy than wake up with a knife in your back."

Of course. Jeralt's discipline ran of legends among the Knights. It was what carried him away from Garreg Mach before the church had swept them back under its wings.

Byleth knew and respected it. After all, he had trained under those disciples. And it was those same disciples now that tacked on a false smile, pried weakly at the vice grip around his chest, and said, "I understand, Jeralt. Thank you."

* * *

Five paces in. "Teach, you wanted to talk to me?"

"I did." A Saturday, so the classroom was guaranteed to be empty. Outside was the courtyard. A nice distraction. A needed one. "I hope you're feeling better."

"Well, I'm out of bed. Getting mauled by a horse and slashed across the arm isn't the first thing on my bucket list, but I guess you can't—"

"Claude. This is serious."

A pause. "All ears, Teach."

Just like that. Schemer to student—remarkable. _Claude_. "I don't think..."

"Yes?"

"I don't think we should continue." Zero paces. Back and forth. "Our meetings."

"What meetings?"

"Tea. Our interactions. _"_

Was Claude watching him? His hand, trying to speak? Could he see through the veneer? How else would he explain?

Second pause. "If I overstepped any boundaries, I apologize. Really. The poem—"

"It's not you."

"Then is it something else?" Playful. Steeped in doubt. Asking him to see, as if he couldn't—

"Did I misinterpret something?"

"No." A hundred paces in his chest. "This is my decision."

"I respect your wishes, Teach, but I don't understand. You know I can't sit right without an answer."

"It's not worth your time." _Please._

There: a hundred to a thousand, "Did you have a change of heart?"

A thousand of them. Paces? Sprints? Awful and everywhere, the cries of one word drenching his lips with the answer so that there was no possible way to relinquish to Claude differently without _lying_ to him if he chose to say:

"...Yes."

Pause number three. Longer, this time.

 _Much_ longer.

How long?

Then, "Ah."

"Claude—"

"So. That's why."

Green, right outside the window. "I'm afraid so."

"Well, thanks for keeping it straight."

Out of reach. Fissured divide, cut loose; _I'm sorry, I didn't want to disappoint you, I thought it would be different,_ "I'll see you around, Teach."

Six paces out.

* * *

"Professor, on your left!"

"What?"

The pain bursted. Byleth gasped as it wore into his lungs. He felt steel and tasted blood as the clouds melted. He was on his knees. Someone was screaming his name, and "Professor!", and a heart-rendering _"Teach!"_ , and arms, desperately pulling as he forgot how to stand. Followed by his name, the laws of world and warfare giving out to...

...his position within the trees. He was crouching, and Ignatz, Claude, and Hilda were beside him. The first was afraid, the second was laser-focused, and the last one wanted to sleep.

"Maybe if we can storm from the back," Claude was murmuring, "since they gathered here to corner us. Heh, I never would've thought..."

He held a hand to his head. Her voice followed shortly: "Again? Seriously, _again?"_

 _Sothis._ No chance to open his mouth. They were right beside him, and the less he said, the better. _What happened?_

"You were about to die. That's what happened." His hand drifted over his chest. Intact, more than he deserved. "That's the third and last time we can use Divine Pulse. What's gotten into you?!"

Into him? Aside from the spear seeking out his lungs? _Nothing,_ he answered. He searched their surroundings. That's right—they were cornered at Zanado, their attempt to rout the remains of Kosta's bandits gone astray.

He had greater worries. _Last time?_

"You already used your first two. First to change tactic, second to spare that girl from losing her legs." She snorted. "Whatever's going on, now is not the time to lose focus. You have to see this through!"

She was right. Rhea had asked him to clean up as a favor. He hadn't thought twice before offering his sword and his class. The more points he scored with Rhea's goodwill, the better.

Not his first mistake, though it had led to his worst. A surprise jump had cleaved off a sliver of their group. Combat had been reduced to hit and run. To seal the gap, Byleth had given the order to split up. Lead the main force and pick from afar. The rest would circle back and strike the flank.

He had not expected Claude's bow to snap. Or Ignatz to miss all his shots. Or Hilda to turn tail ahead of everyone else.

The bandits were quick to counterstrike and quicker to press the advantage. A nimble force of considerable numbers, cutting across the field to meet at the jugular. Arrows, a stab or two, scoring into flesh.

Their retreat had led into a score of trees, the ridge holding them hostage. The bandits circled at a distance, mocking their prey before dragging them to Death's Door. Par for the course. Byleth had thought little of it, then realized: they were cutting off threads for escape.

Perhaps they could wait them out. But, no, it was too costly a bargain. Without Marianne or a vulnerary to their stock, the signs of wear were festering at the corners. Ignatz was grimacing, Claude was barely scraping by with a smile, and Hilda was...hopefully just tired.

"Teach?" Claude turned from his position at the head. "What's the move?"

He mulled it over. "How many are there now?"

"Twelve of them, two on cavalry. The rest are on foot." He rubbed his hands together. "Got to hand it to them, they jumped us right off the bat."

"So, the other four must have gone back."

"Guessing they rejoined the main troop," Claude suggested. "Let's hope the rest of the class knows what they're doing."

Ignatz balled his hands into fists. "I hope they make it."

"I hope _we_ make it." Hilda groaned. "Things are looking rough."

"You're not even injured, Hilda," Claude pointed out. His hands were working to piece together what was left of his bow. From his pocket came a spare bowstring, hairs splitting. He loosely tied it over the break.

"Maybe you wouldn't be either if you were smarter about it," she said. "Why on Earth did you taunt them?"

"Hey, Teach said to lead from afar. So I did." He gave it an experimental thwack. He was not satisfied. A handful of draws and he would be back to tossing fists. "Hm, I reckon we have a couple minutes before they tire of mocking their prey. Teach, any ideas?"

Byleth peered through the branches. Their force could whittle them to shavings. Mercenaries, a mage or two. A clash in the open was asking for casualties—Sothis would be staring at a graveyard.

"Escape," he said aloud as he settled on the idea. "We run for it."

Hilda whirled to him. "We're not fighting?"

"No. Our chances are slim if we do." The chances were none, as Byleth could recall too fondly. No point in scaring them beyond their scope. "Claude, stay to the back. Ignatz and I will take the middle. Hilda, since you're uninjured, you'll take the lead.

No one seemed too happy with their assigned role, least of all Hilda. Byleth ignored her cries of _why me, I'm just a delicate flower_ to focus on Claude's scowl. "Any questions?" he said.

"Multiple." He drew an arrow from his quiver. Tested the notch to worn string. "But you're the professor. I trust you."

The weeks had been similar in dance: formalities, a smile, some tactician's speak here and there. Nothing like the Claude who sang across parchment, or disguised tea as an excuse for conversation. His clever wit and not-so-clever schemes had been laced with stagnant water. Words were sharp and brief, lined with respect to hide his secrets. 'Subtle' was the right word, though it felt wrong.

It was exactly what Byleth had asked for. He respected it enough to search for solace in his dreams alone.

He couldn't dwell on that now. "Ignatz," he said. "Are you ready? Stay behind Hilda. Snipe anyone who approaches from the front."

"Got it, Professor."

"Uh, Professor?" Hilda gave her axe a hearty swing. Almost a second too late for Ignatz. "Which way should I go?"

He scoped the landscape. The woods to their right would have to suffice. Thin trunks and thinner branches, but whatever evened the odds. "Head into the forest," he said. "If we're lucky, we can rejoin the rest. They can't be far."

"Well, here goes nothing."

She set off at a crouch. Ignatz followed, and Byleth, and Claude as he scuffled dirt to cover their tracks. From outside, jeers dissipated to the sound of wind; they must have caught on. Their time frame had shortened from minutes to seconds.

He only hoped they would take the bait. "Did you leave them, Claude?" he said.

"Sure did. Two arrows, just in case."

"Good." He peered over his shoulder. Leaves, branches, and the cold green. "That should buy us some time."

A whistle. Shouts from a distance, and it was fading. Hilda picked up speed at Ignatz's signal. The grounds changed degrees and an incline was in sight. Claude was right behind. Byleth could come face-to-face and see the false hope if he wanted to. What he wanted was to hold it close. He had to guide them well. If they fell— _Hilda begging for mercy, Ignatz sobbing, Claude trying to cling to life_ —

Slight vibration to Claude's arm as he notched an arrow. His aim could scare a hummingbird, but if they centralized their attack, he wouldn't last. And then? Could he fend off the pack with a simple sword? Though, he could trust Claude to get the others to safety. That was what mattered. Sothis would have to reprimand him from the other side.

"Teach," Claude said.

He caught his inhale. "Didn't work?" he whispered.

No answer. Until, "No. They're coming."

And Byleth could hear it. Steps muffled by the balls of their toes. Approaching, and _quickly._

"Ignatz." Stealth was no longer needed. They would only be slowed down. "Get Hilda out. Regroup with the others."

"Huh?" He shot up. "But what about you?"

"Get down!"

Claude spun in a half-circle and released the string. Not behind, but into the trees, and down came a strangled gargle, a bandit once poised to jump. He was a corpse before his body hit the ground.

Claude crouched to rip out the shaft. Then notched it back into position. Hilda made a vomiting noise. "Geez, Claude, barbaric much?"

"Hilda, go. Take the incline. Use the ridge so you won't be surrounded." Byleth drew his sword. "Ignatz, defend Hilda. Aim for anyone who gets too close."

Ignatz hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, Professor. Let's go, Hilda."

"Oh, alright. Don't get killed out there!"

Claude gave a low whistle. "Think we can hold them off?"

Byleth ran a hand over the missing gape in his chest. "Certainly," he lied.

The lack of complaining and whimpering was a goddess-send. Two less worries. And Claude would join them after. If not on his terms, then Byleth's.

He stepped closer to Claude. There was tension in his shoulders, coiled to burst. The scent of pine and earth. A hint of blood to draw the sharks. "Though," Byleth began, and found himself searching to cover the blemishes, "we may need to get close."

Claude looked at him. "Oh?"

"Cover my back, Claude." He searched the branches. Shadows, tipping about the corners, grazing his cape. "I'll cover yours."

He nodded. "Of course, Professor."

_Professor?_

The bandits had caught up. Some were charging, others jumping from behind the trees. No form nor formation to their approach. They shouted something, lost to the winds of battle. One was dead before reaching weapon's distance.

Claude reloaded and sent another. The bandit dodged, but the movement knocked him off-kilter; Byleth saw the opening. He leapt, and his sword sunk into the lodge of his chest. The iron tore through patched cloth, then his heart, and Byleth winced at his scream.

Any regret would render through defenses. Jeralt had taught him this. The order was survival first, then victory, then mourning the dead.

He thought this as the bandit collapsed at his feet. Grasping for his shoe, perhaps begging for mercy. Byleth couldn't tell which before he stilled in the dirt.

Two more arrows. One struck fatally. The other lodged into an arm. The victim cursed and tore ahead, lance slashing at thin air. Claude danced back and Byleth jumped to the side. The blade split her back as she fell to her knees.

"To your right, Teach!"

He saw the arrows. It was Claude who spared him, hauling him out of harm's way. The volley landed within breathing distance, and Byleth gave a nod of thanks.

Claude eyed the ones at his feet. Then seemed to think better of it, and sent his own. Three, to rattle the branches. A hanging silence and no return fire.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," he said.

"Don't lose focus."

Byleth whirled to face the remaining brawler. His gauntlets did the talking. Once, striking the trunk. The second grazed Byleth's side. He winced, but ducked the third and slashed out— _knees are often left exposed, so aim for them to incapacitate,_ as Jeralt would say—and he was tipping over. His neck was left wide open.

Byleth looked up to avoid the head rolling down. "Claude?"

He hoped for an acclamation. He expected a generic response. What he saw was a grimace, and Claude muttering, "Damn it."

Was he injured? But there were no stains, and he was standing just fine. That was when Byleth noticed his bow. Cracking down the middle. His eyes met his, rounded with concern. "Teach, I'm out," he said. "I can't fix this one."

Which left his sword. Byleth quickly racked through memory. Seven of the fallen, if memory served. The cavalry would avoid the woods. The mages wouldn't burn down their advantage. Which left one. He could deal with one.

He turned to his right. His chest seized; was that a glint of steel?

By the Goddess— " _Claude!_ "

He tore through dirt to slam into him. Both tumbled to the floor. Leaves scattering, shafts crushed, and Claude could barely get out a "Thanks, Teach!" before rising to his knees. He scanned the trunks. Recognition—Byleth heard it in the way he snapped whatever was left of his bow and hurled the wood between the gaps.

His awe at such miraculous aim collapsed into worry. Claude had dodged another before charging into the foliage, foaming at the mouth. Punches, tearing of fabric, followed by a grunt (whose?)

A harsh snap. His bones chattered at the sound.

Claude reemerged. Bruises, but nothing to scar. He held the bandit by the scruff of his hood. His eyes were glazed over, his neck slanted at an angle.

"Got him," Claude said. "Not bad, huh, Teach?"

The body dropped. Their gaze met on even ground. Byleth wanted to speak; he barely rasped out a breath. Clarity spun at the edge of his hearing: "Teach?"

Then, out of a hazed memory, " _Teach!_ "

He coughed. The arrow seemed to wiggle into his back as he latched onto Claude's arm. His knees were up and bent.

"I got you," he was saying from afar. "Hey, can you hear me? I'll get you out of here."

 _Claude._ He tried to say it. He was being carried, his arm over a shoulder, a hand around his waist. His weight was no longer his own.

"C'mon, Teach. Stay with me." Calm and composed. Claude doesn't panic. He never does.

But his words did sound convincing. "I'm not letting you die here. We still need you."

 _Of course not._ The forest was strangely ethereal. Byleth felt as if he had entered the home of the Goddess. Light, breaking through the trellis. The surviving flowers were dancing for them. And the trees. How they bowed their heads. He understood now. Such divine grounds could only be graced by Her hand. Fódlan was indeed lucky, and he was the luckiest to see it unfold.

She must be watching over them. How else would he hear her speaking so closely?

_"Please, Teach. I need you."_

* * *

By the time Byleth woke it was late in the day. Approaching evening, perhaps. The battle must have taken up the morning, their return the rest of the afternoon. Garreg Mach's infirmary held an undeniable smell—dried herbs and heavy perfume—so that explained the lack of clothes. Why his bedsheets were foreign. The pile of infirmary wear by his feet. To cap it off, the jagged pain tattooed between his shoulders.

Then Manuela had entered and casually dropped Rhea's head: "Glad you're awake. You've been out for three days."

He had proceeded to blast her with his list of questions. She had responded to each with great patience, the answers patched from ambiguous cloth: "They're all fine." "They're okay." "You're going to be okay." "Lady Rhea is handling it."

That didn't satiate the knot of doubts, so he had depended on their visits. Ignatz, a walking bag of apologies. Hilda: half worried, half brimming with pride. "I got them all, Professor!" she had said. "All four of them! Guess fear brings out the soldier in me, huh? No need for praise. Don't expect me to do it again."

Marianne had tried to speed the healing. Same technique as their ride back from Zanado. Didn't work, and Manuela had forbidden further intervention, but Byleth made sure to thank her for saving his life. All it did was make her uncomfortable.

Lysithea had brought him a book to read: "Lore of the Goddess”. Proof that they should spend more time together; he’d tossed it aside. Raphael had brought a hunk of meat Byleth couldn't chew ("Gotta keep your muscles strong!"), Lorenz a plea to stop Claude from ruling by dictatorship, and Leonie a visit with Jeralt. For each minute of his lecturing she had offered an eager nod.

Which left one. A week later, Byleth couldn't hold it in: "How is he?"

Another to add to the list as Manuela rubbed the spot on his back. One day of white magic to restore flesh and blood. Two days of medicine. They were running on the third, and Byleth was tiring of anesthesia by herbal paste.

"Who?" Manuela asked innocently.

No way she was unaware. If Claude was a gossip, then Manuela was the entire village.

"The house leader," he said, as if that could hide the name.

"Which one?"

Maybe he should just let his wound rot.

"Claude," he relinquished.

"Oh, him,” she said. "Yes, he's doing fine. If anything, he's quite concerned—even visited a few times."

"When? I don't recall this."

"You were recovering and asleep. But he insisted, so I let him in." She shrugged. "Students, what can I say? Perhaps he wished to confirm for himself."

Byleth reached back to pat the spot. He winced as Manuela slapped his wrist. "He's uninjured, correct?"

"Shouldn't you be more worried about yourself?"

He realized the limits to his self-control as he let slip: "No. How is he? I remember him bleeding."

"Well, well." She drew back. "So were you, Professor. Up to within an inch of your life. Yet you only seem to be thinking of your precious little deer." A dip in tone, a dagger to his skin. "How generous of you."

" _Manuela._ "

"Relax, Professor. He's fine." She gave one last inspection, then rose up. "Perfect. That's the last of it. Looks like my work here is done."

She shuffled to the door. The trails of perfume lounged in her wake. No choice left but to jump.

"Maneula," he said. "What day is it today?"

"Why do you ask?" she responded.

"The days are blurring. I'm losing track."

It was clear she didn't believe him as she glanced back. He couldn't blame her. "Wednesday," she said before pausing. Proof of the theater in her blood. "Twenty-fourth."

The infirmary suddenly felt too crowded. "Thank you."

"Of course." Another dramatic pause by the doorway. "By the way," she said, "I received word that a visitor will be coming soon. Just so you're aware."

Nothing more was revealed, despite Byleth's raised hand. Or his open mouth. Or his request of "Who?"—she was gone, and he was left to ponder the possibilities as daylight soaked the wooden grain. Would Jeralt give him another scolding? What would Rhea think? He could ask Sothis, but she had sunk into his organs since her scolding at Zanado. Given what he knew, either giggling in a corner or snoring. Perhaps he should take on her example.

There was a knock, and the door swung before Byleth could call out, "Come in."

In truth, he had expected Jeralt. Seteth, perhaps, if someone had it out for him, maybe Cyril to clean up. Rhea wouldn't bother at such late hours.

What he got was a Leicester noble with a silver tray. His smile was one for wolves.

"Now, before you say _anything"—_ Claude raised a hand to Byleth's open mouth—"I was told to come here."

"By who?"

"Your old man."

"Jeralt?" he said. "Jeralt told you to come?"

"His very Highness himself." He set the tray down. A teapot, _another_ poultice, a pound of bandages, and Byleth's reflection screaming, _What is going on?_ "Said it would do you good to see a familiar face. And yes, I _did_ ask the burning question: 'why not yourself?' He didn't give me an answer. Couldn't look me in the eye."

If Byleth understood, then he (hopefully) managed to hide it. Leave it to Jeralt to circumvent tradition. "How are you feeling?" he asked instead. "Are you hurt?"

The smile remained fixed. "I knew you'd ask that," he said. "But don't worry. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Byleth said. "You were bleeding, weren't you?"

"Yup. Seven days ago." He placed his hands on his knees, bending over.

"Your back," he said. And stopped.

Byleth saw the creases below his eyes. The lines punched into skin. The contents of Claude's heart could be closed by fist, Byleth was aware. Such tactics were essential to the name of Claude von Riegan. He was not tempted by glimmers or offers. He chose to cut his own shares, thick enough to drown a boar. Through winks and smiles, no one would be any the wiser.

What Byleth saw now was a stripped husk.

"It's fine," Byleth said. "I'll be fine."

Claude's face was carved out of rock. "You're lying, Teach."

"I'm not." He twisted slightly, his proof glaring under the garden of dead herbs. "Manuela has done all she can. I'll get there soon enough."

"Here, let me help."

His hands felt rough, but his touch was soft. The poultice was plastered on, another layer that Byleth could smell at a distance. Strip by strip, he applied the bandages. Not a word traveled between. Byleth could sense his glass-blown frame webbing into cracks.

"Thank you," Byleth murmured. It was after he shifted back that he found Claude on one knee. His eyes were walled off. Guilt, sunken and worn, pooled around the bridge of his nose.

"Why?" he said.

"Why what?"

"Why did you take it?" Claude asked. "You could've bled out. If you'd died, the Church would've lost you."

 _I would've lost you,_ Byleth could read.

He considered it over. The truth came in facets, like the light bleeding through stained glass. To what length should he draw his blade?

"You're my student," was his answer. "I protect my students."

His eyes widened. "Teach."

"Claude." He attempted to stand. The nausea said otherwise, and he was tumbling to the floor. Claude was already there, steady to the leather of his boots, arms at the ready.

So much for that plan. "Could you get my mercenary's suit?" he said as Claude lowered him back down.

"Sure," he said without hesitation. "Where is it?"

"Far corner," he said. "Hanging off the chair."

He was stoic as he retrieved it. The cape stroked the floor, and the outfit was a wad of armor and silk as Claude tossed to land between his legs.

"What's it for?" he asked.

"You will see soon enough." He dug his hand into the pockets. "In the meantime, would you kindly pour me a cup of tea?"

"Certainly." The trickle of liquid, the heat of steam. It was a familiar comfort. Byleth had been prepared to forego those for the incoming moons. Especially with a Claude who had forgotten the idiosyncrasies to his name.

Perhaps this would jog his memory.

Claude handed him the cup. "Here," he said. "Careful, it's hot."

Byleth took it in one hand. He placed his other above the blanket, fist-down. "Close your eyes," he instructed.

He did the opposite. "What?"

"Please hold out your hand and close your eyes." His mouth was twitching, wasn't it? He was worse than Ignatz at adhering to training. He would have to change that. But first, to tend to Claude's widening suspicions.

"You trust me, don't you?" he said.

"Of course," Claude began, "but..."

"Are you afraid?"

"Are you... _badgering_ me?"

He raised the teacup to hide his tell. "Claude. As your professor, I demand that you follow my instruction."

 _Abuse of privileges,_ Jeralt would say. _A tease and a half,_ according to Manuela. And then there was the side of Claude that only Byleth comprehended like an ink-stained page: obedience.

"Alright, Teach," he said.

Byleth searched for visible signs of cheating. Nothing, not even a micromovement, and he made sure to check twice—you could never be too sure with Claude—before opening his palm. Dropped something in. As he did, he drained the cup of tea.

Their reactions fell within an arrow's shot of one another:

"This is a chess piece."

"This isn't Leicester Cortania."

They paused, their eyes flickered up, and they met. Byleth saw them, round and bewildered. They absorbed the rest of the infirmary until the only things left were his taste buds, soaked in berries. Mildly sweet, a hint of pine.

Like before, Claude was the first to say it: "Why?"

"I haven't forgotten," Byleth said.

"Forgotten what?"

"The date," he said. "The twenty-fourth. Is that correct? Or did Manuela steer me wrong?"

Claude made a strangled noise. "Are you being serious?"

"Of course. It's your birthday."

Byleth observed the ornament. Shining silver, jagged at the corners. The contours were threadbare—probably not "highest-grade", as the merchant had begged him into believing—but Claude didn't seem to notice. There was much that fell into that realm as he stared at Byleth. As if he were Seiros herself, or Nemesis, or a professor cupping his share of Honeyed-Fruit Blend to calm the unease that came with fatal decisions.

Byleth didn't care which. What he wanted was an answer.

The moment stretched before his lips parted. "Why a queen?"

"I'm sorry?" Byleth said.

"This is the queen's figure." He held it up to the sun. Watched it dance between his fingers. "Why this piece?" Then, with a weak chuckle, "Is it because you don't see me as a king? Not manly enough?"

"No." Was he teasing? Who could tell anymore? "You've played chess, correct?"

"Sometimes I dabble."

"The king must hold their position. Should he move, he can only advance one space at a time. And it comes with great risk. He is bound by chains beyond his control." Claude's expression was following, and it struck upon gold as Byleth finished, "but the queen is not."

"Oh," he said.

"You are free to move, Claude." He placed his hand over Claude's. "You are not limited. Your fate is yours to choose. I wanted you to believe it, too."

The walls were down. Claude was soaring out of the rubble. "Teach," he said. "That's..."

"I know it's not much, but I hope it means something."

"Yes. Yes, it means a lot. I appreciate that, Teach—much more than you know."

Any more of a tug and Byleth's grin would come into existence. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't do more. The visiting merchants had little left in stock."

"Are you kidding?" Claude said. "You're still healing. From saving _me._ And you still managed to get me a gift. I'm in awe, truly." His smile wrinkled at the corners. "Though, the fact that you remembered...I shouldn't be surprised."

He broke gaze from the silhouette in his hand. "Besides, this is perfect," he said. "I love it, Teach. Thank you."

"Of course." He paused. A hint of a shadow, flickering inside. "And about before. I'm—"

"It's alright." Claude interrupted. "You don't have to say anything."

"I must."

"You don't. I already know."

He ran his fingers through the curls of his hair, and there it was: the smirk of a thousand devils. "Here, I'll gander a guess: you didn't mean what you said. Your feelings aren't really gone, you just said what you had to. And you're sorry you might've caused any trouble. Oh—and you hope this won't ruin things for us. Am I on the right track?"

Byleth was left to fumble in the weeds as he blurted out, "How?"

"Did you forget, Teach?" He tapped the side of his head. Second shot: the wink. "You're talking to the king of schemes here. Or queen now, I guess. Whatever. Either way, you're not that hard to read."

He coughed and added, "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Makes my job easier."

"You knew." Byleth rubbed the sore spot between his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised that Claude's book held hidden chapters. Nor that he was caught, flesh and bone, within the tale. "All along?"

"Weeell," he dragged out sheepishly, "it took me a day. Or two."

"I see."

"Okay, so technically a week. Until I found out."

"Found out?"

He lifted the blankets aside to sit down on the bed. Shoulders, close enough to graze. Their lips were within distance. And the warmth, Claude's warmth, mimicking the blood that ran down his front by spearhead. His grin was contradictory in purpose: air was rushing into Byleth’s lungs.

"Found out your secret. You've got many, I know. Some are easier to discern than others." He gestured to the teacup in his hand. "Like your preference of tea. You're not a fan of the Cortania, are you?"

"What?" Byleth said. "No, of course I—"

"I'm flattered, but I can tell you're faking it." _Either way, you're not that hard to read._ He would _definitely_ have to do something about that. Expelling Claude from the monastery seemed like a fine start. "Don't act like you're not forcing it down. It's fun to watch, I'll admit, but I'd rather you enjoy yourself."

He placed a hand over his. The secret of Claude, as Byleth was coming to understand, locked behind fool's jade and snake's smile: he was gentle in the ways that mattered.

"Is this one better?" he wondered. "Thought you'd prefer something less bitter."

He did. Byleth, like Lysithea, held an affinity for his sweet tooth. Such as how the last rays of the sun, thick as they trailed over the room, reminded him of molten honey. And how Claude might be the same if he dared to break from discipline, Jeralt, and the voice telling him to stop before he—

"You were right, Claude." He took a gentle sip. The warmth seeped his throat, coming in second. It would have to do. "This does taste sweeter. I appreciate it."

"It's the least I could do."

"And for visiting me," he added. "Thank you."

He turned to see Claude watching him. The light in his forest poked at blood-stained memory. _Claude von Riegan_. Schemer to the ends of his Crest, a thief of whirlwinds.

He could keep what he stole.

"Happy birthday, Claude," Byleth said. "I'm glad I could take part."

In response, Claude leaned in. The warmth blossomed under sunset as Claude gave him a kiss—tender and _very_ sweet, Byleth would admit—on the side of his cheek.

"You made it special, Teach," he said. "Thank you. For everything."


	4. Shall We Dance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the grand ball approaches, Claude enacts the final steps of his plan.

_**Ethereal Moon  
Year 1180** _

“Hey, Professor! Got a minute?”

Byleth turned. An angelic face—two faces, he realized—with less innocent smiles. Dorothea was the spitting image of Manuela: elegant, hands clasped, a swan to set off warning sirens. Sylvain was a fireball of molten depravity, so nothing new there.

Both gave reason for his hackles to rise. A day in broad sunshine beside the fishing pond. No agendas to dodge. No reason to draw his sword. Where were the churchgoers?

“What do you need?” he said.

“Well, Dorothea and I got to thinking—”

“Sylvain,” she cut in. “This was Sylvain’s idea, Professor. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Like I said, _Dorothea and I_ got to thinking” —he nimbly dodged the spike of her heel— “and we came up with a brilliant idea. We realized, hey, our professor deserves to stand among the best of the best. But he’ll never get there if he doesn’t have the proper guidance. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Guidance was important, that much was true.

“I suppose so," he said warily.

“Right. So, to be the best of the best, you gotta know the game. And, given that the White Heron Cup is coming up, you’ll have to up that tenfold if you wanna impress.” His wink was similar to Claude’s; riddled with something foul. “You’ll be joining us for that, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Participation is for students representing their houses. I won’t be taking part.”

_C’mon, Teach. Show the kids what’s up._

_Absolutely not. Rules are rules._

_Not even for me?_

_Especially not for you. I already learned my lesson._

_Ouch. That cuts deep._

_You misunderstand. If I’m to dance for someone special, why would I do so out in the open?_

_Is that so? So you’re a private show kind-of-guy?_

_If you must put it that way, then yes._

...Teach. _You old dog, you. You never fail to surprise._

_And you never fail to test my patience. My answer stands._

“...so you may as well attend,” Dorothea was saying. He had missed her entire speech. But Sylvain was losing his patience, so she was likely being sensible. “The ball is a different occasion. Romantic, one might even say.” She caught wings as she finished, “A chance to find _true love_.”

Sylvain clipped them. “Ignore her, Professor. Always head in the clouds with this one.”

“Better than groveling like a worm," she said.

“You’ll at least be at the ball, right?” he said. “The cup might be for students, but the dance is for everyone. Even someone as stalwart as you.”

“Stalwart?”

“What Sylvain _means_ is that if you wish to impress, you’ll have to...erm...put in some work,” Dorothea hedged. “No one likes a stiff dancer. Reminds me of a wooden board. Makes me feel like one too.”

“Exactly.” Sylvain moved closer to Byleth to give him a slight nudge. “And we know you’ll have a pair of eyes watching. No pressure, really. It’s the perfect time to shine.”

“Lady Rhea?”

“‘Course not. Are you gonna make me spell it out loud?”

He should be used to it. The chill racking up his spine confirmed the opposite. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Byleth mumbled. If they had mercy to spare he could escape with a slap on the wrist. “There’s no one.”

But Dorothea was a monster in her own right. “Come now, Professor,” she mused. “You may be pulling the wool over everyone else’s eyes, but us? That’s a losing battle.”

Sylvain threw in, “And you’re not one to fight a losing battle, so don’t bother now.”

That proved all of his beliefs for the day. “Where,” he began, “did you hear about this?”

“Hear? I didn’t hear anything,” Dorothea said. “I saw it for myself. At the poetry slam?”

_Seiros, protect me._ “You must be joking.”

“Not at all. The only joke here is Sylvain.”

“Har-har. Flush out your poison while you can.” Incorrigible. They were both incorrigible. What was he doing there? Where were his students? “But she does have a point. That poem? You caught us all by surprise, Professor. Even I was feeling the heat.”

“Please don’t,” Byleth said, practically a beg. “It was months ago.”

“Hey, it’s a compliment. It means you’ve got what it takes.” He did not. “Which means there’s potential.” _There. Was. Not._ “And that’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No worries, Professor,” Dorothea said. “Sylvain and I are happy to train you in the arts of romance. Or,” she cut in at Byleth’s expression, “I can do most of the training. Sylvain can show you what _not_ to do.”

“Didn’t know you had so many jokes, Dorothea.”

“That wasn’t a joke.”

“Professor, you _know_ this is my strong suit.” He offered Byleth a hand along with his smile. Neither seemed trustworthy. “With me there, it’ll be a walk in the gardens. I’ll turn you into the shining example of a ladies’ man. What do you say?”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, right, my mistake. Let me rephrase that. Er...a gentleman's man? No, wait. A man-killer?” Dorothea loudly cleared her throat. “Sorry. You get the idea.”

Byleth understood. What he didn’t understand was how the monastery could have magically abandoned him in his hour of need. Maybe he could jump into the pond. Would that throw them off his scent? Could he find an excuse to scrabble together?

A gleam in their eyes confirmed it: he was easy game, and he was cornered.

"Very well, Sylvain. Dorothea." He threw his head back, hid among the clouds, and tugged out of his throat, "Do your worst.”

Sylvain rubbed his palms together. “Oh, man, Professor, are you in for it now. Hope you're ready for boot camp.”

The second blow, deadly and swift: “Afraid he’s right, Professor. We’ve got quite a bit of work to do.” 

* * *

As Byleth left the Blue Lions classroom Sylvain poked, “What do you think, Dorothea? We got a lot done in two weeks.”

“Hm.” The cape disappeared beyond slammed doors. “I think we’ve done all we can.”

“You know, you’re pretty good at this. Some of those lines were good material. I might even steal a few.”

“No need, Sylvain. They wouldn’t work for a lost cause like you.”

He stretched and groaned to prove her standards correct. “Think Claude will appreciate our hard work?”

“Perhaps,” she said with a twinkle. “I guess we’ll see.”

* * *

Three things to a good scheme, according to Claude von Riegan:

The first was knowing your target. Textbook, but it was textbook for a reason. Maybe the target was yourself, should the scheme involve your reputation or an attempt to sneak out rations, something, _anything_ other than turnip gratin for dinner. Grabbing tea with a professor would be a good place to start.

Step number two: a planned course of action. Most people tended to skip this step. They would think something like, oh, I know my target, I’ll just jump right ahead because nothing could possibly go wrong. Why plan for disaster when I’m the smartest student in the bunch?

An arrow in the back had been quick to shut him up. 

Good thing it had all worked out—Teach held ungodly endurance. Maybe he was a god by a different definition.

Third step: throw in a curveball. Otherwise, the scheme would be a normal plan. Dull as ditchwater. Leave those to someone familiar in monotony (in Claude’s opinion, Lorenz—perfect for a poetry slam.) His idea involved asking two of the more... _experienced_ students in love to lead pointers on the heart. He could’ve easily done it himself, but where was the fun in that?

The pieces were in place. He’d set up a few. The others had been left to fate and, lo and behold, fate was a stickler for watching things unfold. 

Another discovery: Teach must be similar to fate in that regard. Claude had expected their time in the infirmary to be the curtain call. Back to reading minds at a distance. But Teach had been willing to continue. “Color me surprised,” Claude had said, but there was no other way he could’ve answered those burning eyes except, “What’s the plan, my friend?”

Their “secret” meetings had been clipped to keep a civil front. They met for tea in the company of stars. During the day they would walk the hallways. Discuss student-and-teacher things. His almost-smiles and Claude’s shifting eyebrows made up the difference.

The months soon slipped by along with Byleth’s defenses. From bits and pieces Claude had composed a nebulous map. Teach didn’t know his age (what in the world?) He disliked bitter things. There was a scar on his hand after bandits had raided his village. He preferred truth over mythology (a man after his own heart). He didn’t know how to dance.

“Truly?” Claude burst out in the library. Their table was strewn with books. Familiar terrain for a stealth mission involving Church-kept secrets.

Judging by Teach’s expression, he’d blown their cover.

“Yes.” He picked up a novel, carefully leafed through the pages. “Please keep your voice down.”

“Sorry.” Still his professor, but the boundaries were sinking into quicksand. “What I meant to say was, wow, I think it’s great you don’t know how to dance!” He paused. “No? Nothing?”

The answer was nope, nothing at all. It was getting harder to draw him out. Teach must’ve upped his steel to block the jabs. 

“You’re losing focus.” Byleth tapped the open book before him. “We’re here on your terms, remember?”

“Right, right,” Claude said. “But before I lose myself in… _Faith to Fodlan”_ —like there was anything worth reading in there— “please, tell me more. Did Jeralt never teach you?”

A nod. “I’ve said it to you before. I was a mercenary, and mercenaries don’t engage in creative arts.”

Claude didn't forget easily. When it came to Teach, his memory was pristine. "You have?" he said. "I don't recall. Mind expanding on that?”

There was a flicker in Byleth’s eyes, quick and skittish. Was it fear? Did Claude just strike a vital nerve? 

“Yes, of course.” Claude could see his secrets exposed in the open. Glittering and bright. They faded as Byleth answered, as if someone were feeding him words, “Jeralt was strict. I was only taught the things I’ve taught you. Nothing else.”

“Any reason as to why?”

He looked down. Counted the lines in the wood. Must’ve been a forest of them.

How long was Claude supposed to wait?

“None.” There was a mountain to dig through in there. “I suppose...I don’t have the knack for it.”

“That can’t be true,” Claude said disapprovingly. “How can you be so sure if you haven’t given it a chance?”

Whatever this silence was, Claude wanted to shove it into the pond. Where had it come from? Teach was stoic, harsh, and, if he was lucky, a sweetheart that bumped Claude’s heart up a few notches sweeter. To see him act so feeble was to watch Rhea give up her faith in the Church. If it were anyone else, Claude would’ve called his bluff.

But Teach didn’t bluff. Whatever came out, for better or for worse, was raw and real.

Time to switch up his approach.

“How about this then,” Claude said. “I’ll participate in the Heron Cup.”

“You don’t have to—”

“In return, Teach, I hope to see you at the ball.” His head snapped up. Definitely real. Claude knew counterfeit, could roll the rules around his tongue. “You don’t have to be the belle of the ball, but I hope you'll give it your best shot. I hate seeing you give up so easily. So let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Byleth narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t expect you to be so…”

“Passionate?” _It’s you. C’mon._ “I’ve been called worse, so I’ll take it.”

“You’re hiding something from me.”

“Am I?” _That’s it. Come on, Teach._ “I guess we’ll find out.”

The rest of their mission had fizzled to a dud, so Claude and Byleth had left shortly after. A waste of time. That’s what Teach was probably thinking. Claude, on the other hand, was wholly satisfied. He hid this in the palm behind his back.

* * *

Claude lost the White Heron Cup.

He was up against Dorothea and Ingrid, after all. His fate was sealed as soon as they started moving.

But amidst the cheering and Alois’ exaggerated praise and Dorothea's hypothetical spotlight, he’d smiled at her. And, much to his content, she had given him a nod.

“Would you kindly, please, desist from making that terrible racket!” Lorenz had hissed, but Claude couldn’t help his whistling that day.

* * *

“The Millenium Festival…”

Before their meeting Byleth had only considered the Church’s mission. _Dangerous, expect the worst, stealing_ were Rhea’s words of choice. Jeralt’s were more alarming: _stay on your toes_. Together, they had gone through a list of possibilities—ambush, hostages, black magic—and rerouted for solutions. He couldn’t tell if it lessened the pressure or upped it to break the ceiling.

The “emergency meeting”, as Claude had pulled together, was the usual. Important by his standards and useless by the rest. Byleth had entertained their discussion, nodded, and listened calmly until Hilda stormed through to break the palisade: “If a boy asks you to dance, you simply must accept! It’s only polite.”

The twinkle in Claude’s eye had been doubly alarming. He could have handled it, had it not trickled into Claude’s words to dig canyons through his brain:

_In exactly five years’ time, let’s promise to meet again, right here at this monastery._

Could such a promise withstand the course of time? Who was to say? Perhaps Garreg Mach had heard and would twist their fates to conjoin at the throat. Would he be there to see it?

_Don’t forget it, Teach. You and I will meet here again..._

“So, it’s almost time,” Sothis brought up. “Are you prepared? Or will you make another fool of yourself?”

“We’ll see.” He buried his worries under his journal. Step back, right foot. Pivot with the swing. It was the same as always: a river while reviewing, a blockade under pressure. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”

“Be it far from me to judge, but I believe you’ll be fine.”

“Are you,” he said, before deciding to push his luck, “complimenting me?”

“Does a knight compliment his horse on learning how to gallop?” A good question. He had done it himself, but who was to say—

“ _Anyways,_ you’re going to be fine. I can see your improvement. That’s a lot for someone who fell their first five times.”

“You have a strange way of encouraging others.”

She giggled. “Well, it works, doesn’t it?”

He chose not to answer as he reviewed a third time.

* * *

The Reception Hall was more open than Byleth had ever seen.

The tables were pushed to the side. Settled on top were baskets of roses and flutes of champagne (or was it cider? Preferably the latter.) There was a golden sheen from above to melt the frosted windows. The ball had yet to start, but the students were already mingling. Sizing each other up. Smiling as they talked. The air was warm, slightly fuzzy. He could feel it on his cheeks.

The nearest exit was sixteen paces away. He’d counted on his way in. A long enough stride could reduce that to thirteen. Nine, if he gave up his dignity and ran for it.

Their heads lifted. Orchestral strings—it set the scene well. The air shifted, and he saw hands exchanged, smiles returned, and partners being pulled to push the ball into motion. Here goes the night, Byleth thought.

He caught Hilda skirting around, waiting for her moment. It didn’t take long. Off to the side was Raphael, exactly where Byleth had expected. Lorenz was imitating Sylvain—one was more successful than the other—while Lysithea was regarding her invitations carefully. In front of two others she turned to a third, and said, “Very well, I’ll accept yours.”

Leonie, on the other hand, was denying Hilda’s framework in etiquette: “Hey, buddy. No means _no._ ” The opposite could be said of Ignatz, stammering and beating himself up. He didn’t know where Marianne was. 

Back to the ball. A few eyes seemed to drift his way, then the other. He didn’t mind. He preferred watching Dimitri and Edelgard set the example. They never seemed to break focus, only pull it. Elegant like his lance, poised to the swing of her axe. Sylvain had been correct: it was both a form and a pattern, equal parts fluid and rigid. He couldn’t stop watching. He didn’t want to.

That is, until he felt someone watching _him;_ his senses were prickling. Came from the ambush training. A dangerous turn of events for it to be kicking in now.

Byleth knew he was doomed before he even turned his head. 

The hall vanished as Claude approached. That smile—there was something different about it. They creased at the corners and lit up his eyes. Did someone light them by torch?

He half-expected a conversation. Perhaps a “Teach, where'd you come from!”, a joke at his expense. Nobility and manners tended to come second to Claude’s tactics. 

But he barreled through all of those just to reach for his hand.

Byleth felt color inch up his throat. Claude’s grip was powerful. His fingers could break a wooden bow. Holding him now, they spoke a language more delicate than the curls of his hair.

_Don’t worry,_ it seemed to say. _I’ve got you._

The wink said something else. Byleth couldn’t decipher it with the hurricane between his ears.

And he was moving with Claude along the marble floors. Nothing exchanged, only a silent pull to the center. He heard whispers—one of them was probably Sothis, just because she could—and for a second, he reconsidered his strategy to avoid the living walls.

He remembered the poetry slam. It had consumed him then. He swallowed the fear now, tight and prickly. Let this be a lesson, he thought. Teach them that Claude has no reason to hide.

“So, Teach.” They stopped. The center was theirs. “Know what to do here?”

There was a way to counter this, Byleth recalled. Play coy, according to Dorothea. Know your worth and stick to it, said Sylvain.

His best attempt landed somewhere in the middle: “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He realized how much he’d missed Claude’s smile—seconds, drawn in hours—upon its return. Claude himself was quicker. A hand to his shoulder, one arm extended. Their fingers linked, and that was when Byleth witnessed a side of Claude he hadn’t seen before. Out of all the faces, this one was different.

It left him dizzy. It said, “Lead the way, Teach.”

Traditionally, waltzing was hand-fed by parents under the iron-clad standards of nobility. Blood or destiny, their children would learn it. From a young age they set to fulfill their House’s honor, swinging and stepping to outdo their competition. Some, like Lorenz, could be mistaken for having neglected the tradition. Talented commoners like Dorothea helped to spread that line of thought.

Byleth wondered which he belonged to. Claude was leaving no hints. His smile was coy. He followed in step as Byleth took the lead. Slowly, around in a circle, not too big. Use the balls of your toes. Swing in time to the rhythm’s flow. He was struggling to remember the list as the green burned it to ashes.

“Teach.” Husky and soft. “You’re doing well.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Hm.” Another round began. _One, two, three. One, two—_ “You’re sure this is your first dance?”

“I promise you.” His gaze broke free of Claude to run into Sylvain. Leaning against the wall, chatting up a damsel. He must have felt the desperation from across the hall; he gave Byleth an eager thumbs-up.

“I received some help,” he said.

Claude teased, “Is that so? A guy like me should be so lucky.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I sure would,” he said. “Look around, Teach. Haven't you been paying attention?”

No, he hadn’t. He was trying not to trip and plant headfirst into Claude’s grassy fields, sparkling and lush with sharpened blades.

He glanced down—ran through the footwork in his head, one more time, just to make sure—and did as Claude suggested. Many of them were staring back. As he swung and faced the other side: the same scenario. Why were they watching? Was he not setting a proper example?

“I think they’re interested.” As devilish as it was Claude. “In dancing with you.”

“With _me?”_

“Can’t be me. I’m just a common little noble with nothing good up my sleeve.” He stepped to his left, and Byleth almost tripped. “But a professor with a list of bodies as long as his sword? That’s enough,” he said, hushed with danger, “to get anyone curious.”

He was close. Close enough for Byleth to say, “What do you mean?”

“What do you say we give them something to talk about?”

He drew in. Byleth jolted, and their back-and-forth broke pattern. There was innocence etched all over him. Golden skin, dark hair, a divine light from above. Except for the fact that it was Claude, and that Claude was more of a schemer than Byleth was entangled in his snare.

His instincts wanted to struggle against the bonds, but it was hard to focus with...Claude. Just, everything. Claude.

“Teach?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

“I…” Questions, fighting to reach his lips. The one that ran past his reddening cheeks: “Why are you asking?”

Where were his eyes going? “Just follow my lead.”

Byleth almost released him as Claude pulled up to his chest. His form stood strong and his lips were gentle, grazing, moving along his jaw before they stopped to plant a kiss below his ear.

“You’re amazing, Teach,” he heard him murmur. “Unlike anything I’ve seen.”

Byleth saw the room pale of color. The words, his _skin,_ were so intimate, so stretched apart from the months spent on tiptoe. And so wholly unlike the Claude who spoke in circles. His hands lost their grip.

“Teach?”

His eyes darted. They were at the edge of the crowd. Someone was approaching, he noticed, thank the Goddess. She was making a beeline straight for Claude. Tapping him on the shoulder, and the deal was set, nothing else to consider. He was already nodding with a smile. 

He let her draw him away. He shot a look back, lamenting a moment hung to dry. _I’m sorry for the interruption,_ it said.

Byleth only noticed his leaving. There were clouds, hazy in his perspective. He fought it, fought the buckling of his legs, by focusing on the students, the light, and not the moment that had trampled his guard and hitched his breath to the horizon.

* * *

The night played on. Claude, to his mild surprise, was in high demand. The few times he’d returned within breathing distance of Byleth involved different arms. At least Teach understood the sentiment. He had even less of a break from the mob in line. Mister Popular, setting the standard.

Until he broke from the cycle to step outside, leave the hall, and give Hilda a visible reason to ask, “Uh, Claude? What are you staring at?”

“Sorry,” he said, watching the doors close. “Let’s go one more time.”

“Only one?”

“There’s something I have to take care of.”

She seemed none too pleased. Normally Claude would dig and pull a winning smile through his teeth. But the thought was missing, his memory retained to his muscles. He relied on it to finish the rounds. To drop her off. By the time she disappeared he had already forgotten her name. 

He searched the sidelines. Praise Almyra—she wasn’t occupied. He approached her before anyone else could. “Dorothea.”

“Claude,” she said.

“You’re looking well. Taking a break?”

“Is this for a dance? I’m afraid I’m all worn out.”

“Afraid not.” Then added, “You’re far too exquisite for my boorish antics.”

She searched him over. “Interesting. Would you say the same of our little Professor?”

“I wouldn’t call him little,” he said. “He’s taller than most.”

“Yes, and with a reputation to match.” She waved to the doors. “But it seems you couldn’t keep him under your wing, could you? What happened there? Did your marvelous plans go awry?”

Her tone was as lyrical as her singing. Great for hiding insults. Claude could taste the poison, sharp and deadly, lurking beneath the sugar.

Which was exactly what he needed. “You might say that,” he said with a grin. “Old Teach escaped my grasp. Maybe he was taught a little _too_ well.”

Warmly, “Blame me, not Sylvain.”

“I'm speaking to you, aren't I?”

She giggled. “Ah, Claude. Such charm from someone so untrustworthy. You’re a sight to behold.”

“Coming from the songstress herself, that’s quite a compliment.” His hand reached out. A glass of champagne came back. “Unfortunately, I’ve already got my eyes set on a shining little star.”

“He’s a special one.”

“Oh, he’s definitely something.”

“You’re taking quite a risk, aren’t you?” she said. “Already the talk of the ball. If I didn’t know better, I would assume you drew your bow and called for anarchy.”

“Eh, let them talk. They’re not my target.” He gave a sip. The liquid sparkled down his throat, and he hummed. Something new to learn: Champagne tastes better when you’re too buzzed to taste it. 

“And they can stare all they want,” he added.

“So you've realized too,” she said. “I’m sure, then, you already know why.”

He falsely wagered, “Because I’m simply too handsome.”

“Because you were the only man dancing with another.” 

“Certainly,” he said. “And what of it?”

“Is the professor aware?”

“A little white lie won’t hurt him.”

She watched him, then the spectacle, still abuzz with the movement and the strings. There was a hint of tragedy in her composure. Claude heard it slipping as she lamented, “Ah, to be so in love as to break customs. I wonder what that’s like.”

“It’s not all it’s set out to be.” He handed the flute to her. “But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t keep things interesting.”

She took it. “I can imagine. So, what will you do now?”

“Well, the night’s still early.” He looked out the arched windows. No stars to be seen. He couldn’t blame them; Teach was stiff competition. “But I didn't expect to be playing hare and hounds. Any idea where a guy like him would run off to?"

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said. 

"No?" Claude pushed. "Come now, Dorothea."

Her lips were poised to maneuver. "Do I look like a liar to you?"

"No," he said. "You only sound like one."

She masked her surprise well. Only a flicker of the brow. Claude saw it, then made a mental note: he should rely on her more often.

"I've heard," she began, as she watched Ferdinand try and fail to woo their classmate in spectacular fashion, "that the Goddess Tower is a good place for some peace and solitude."

“Is that so?"

“Perhaps,” she hinted, drowned beneath the scream of _b_ _ut, but...I am Ferdinand von Aegir!_ “I've gone there, once or twice.”

"Ah," Claude said. "So that's the only reason you're telling me. You're nostalgic and recounting a personal experience of yours. Right, Dorothea?"

"Precisely," she said.

He drew his attention to the main event. Who knew they’d be dancing on the sidelines?

“You know, it’s funny," he said, distracted. Dimitri’s form was _terrible._ And Edelgard wasn't much better. Seemed like she wanted to murder her suitor with her bare hands.

He said, less distractedly, “Do you believe in fate, Dorothea?”

“That depends.” Then, “I would like to.”

“Perhaps that’s what brought us back to this hall.”

“Could it be a repeat of history?”

“Not exactly. The stakes are higher.” He stopped planning Edelgard's hypothetical life of crime to watch Dorothea down the champagne. “And this plan is better. Perhaps my finest one yet.”

She grimaced as she swallowed. “ _Ugh._ If you insist on running in circles, Claude, you may as well enlighten a gal.”

“Sorry, Dorothea,” he said, wink cutting through her glass. “You know the rules. A schemer never reveals his hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cool updates and things:
> 
> \- split this chapter into two due to length OTL  
> \- rewrote parts of ch. 1 for a fresh coat of paint


	5. Measures of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Byleth climbs the Goddess Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am very grateful that this (mostly) fits for day 3 of claudeleth week 2020: dancing/royals!

_**Ethereal Moon  
Year 1180  
**_

_“Ah...I see. The Goddess Tower waits for you…”_

There were no stars to guide Byleth as he walked, but he didn't mind. Dorothea had once shown him the way with Sylvain at their footsteps. _A romantic spot,_ she had offered, hushed and intimate. _It’s the perfect way to swoon that special sweetheart. And, lucky for you, I know my fair share._

Courtyards, the star terrace, a corner by the fishing pond. She had presented a winning smile with each of her findings. And they were certainly sanctuaries, a breather for the mind, but Byleth hadn’t labeled them as romantic, otherwise he’d see Claude stamped into his new hiding spots.

“Very well,” Dorothea had said, exasperated. “I have one more. My personal favorite.”

He’d kept the second reason to himself: he longed for fulfillment, one that was beyond blood, profession, and his dedication to the Church. He’d hidden this from Dorothea, Sylvain, even Claude the same way he’d learned to hide the hollow feeling in his chest, his prayers for the Goddess to fill the spaces. 

He didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know who he wanted to be. But a tower in her name, high enough for him to hold her hand, had seemed like a promising start.

His wishes had aligned with Dorothea’s offer. She’d taken him, and them, up the Goddess Tower and onto the terrace. The view had made up for the treacherous climb (“Is it time for a break?” Sylvain had panted on repeat). Spacious and isolated, stashed among the clouds. There were tree branches engraved in the wall.

Within them he thought he’d seen something. Felt it in his bones, asking him to return.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” he had said. “This is the place.”

It was calling out to him. Sothis in his ear, the rising spiral below his feet. He slid his hand along the stone. Cold and bristling. He recalled a web of cracks near the top. They still weren’t there, and his ascent was approaching nightmarish territory, but he continued. 

"Are you not tired?" Sothis was calling out. "Even I can feel the exhaustion settling into my bones. And ew, watch out! Is that a spiderweb? How unkempt!"

At last, he saw flat ground. A section of sky, open and inviting, along with a silhouette. Byleth squinted. Who else knew about the tower? Better yet, who would be mad enough to follow in his footsteps?

But faith didn’t comply with reason, or grand balls, or Byleth’s sudden understanding that it could exist in the tiniest of ways. It answered with a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh, hey Teach.” His smile, those eyes. “What brings you to the Goddess Tower?”

* * *

Byleth remembered the highlights of their conversation to be:

“Hey, Teach. Have you heard the rumors about this tower?”

“I haven’t.”

“They say if a man and a woman pray for the same thing here, on this night, the goddess will grant their wish without fail.”

“But that wouldn’t work for us.”

“Well, what good is tradition if it holds us back? I say we break it. What do we have to lose?”

“Interesting,” Sothis had mused.

* * *

"Hm...Let’s see...How about we pray for our ambitions to come true?”

"Ambitions?”

“You don’t exactly seem like the selfish type, but even you must have an ambition or two.”

“More of a hope…”

“That’s what I thought,” cutting Byleth at the apex. “It’s the same for everyone.”

* * *

“Oh, divine Goddess! Hear our prayers! We beseech you and your radiance! Please, grant us that which we speak!”

Maybe they could mistake the wind for her whispering.

“Claude?”

“Huh.”

He’d smothered the giggle in his hand.

* * *

Claude was stretching to leave when he said, “Just promise to spare a dance for me. Okay, Teach? I swear, so long as it’s not one of those goofy noble dances, I am a treasure on the dance floor.”

Byleth took it in, rolled it around his head, and pushed out, “You did a fine job earlier.”

“That's a special technique called 'faking it,' ” he teased. “This may shock you, but it’s one of my many talents.”

“You cannot dance?”

“Certainly not for the nobles of goofy.” He paused. “But for the right person?”

Byleth waited, but nothing followed. Claude’s answer seemed to drift out the window the same way he was drifting towards the stairs. His shoulders were locked around a silent decision, buried under flesh and skin. How was Byleth supposed to grasp it?

But, Byleth realized, the same could easily be said for himself. That feeling from before, the so-called shard in the wall. Both would fit snugly into the void in his chest. This was something he could grasp: they were one and the same.

It wasn’t the Goddess to be blamed. “Claude,” he said.

“Teach,” he answered.

“Before you go, I’d like to fulfill that promise.”

He faced him. A flicker, a flame, and it was lighting up the terrace. The look on Claude’s face wasn’t foreign, but it was indescribable. It was his. It _certainly_ wouldn’t last under his usual chains and keys. 

Or maybe it would.

Slowly: “So would I.”

The actual distance, as Claude returned to him, wasn’t far. The space between their torsos felt greater. Two distant lands—one cast aside by dueling continents, one that would beg to belong to either, with Byleth tethering the first bridge. His hands found their place around Claude’s waist. Claude built the second to his shoulders.

“A slow dance?” Claude said lightly.

“I...don’t know anything else.”

“Hm. That’ll cost Dorothea extra.”

“Sorry?” Byleth said.

“Ah, never mind. I can make this work.” He was able to pull Byleth in as easily as he could lean forward to murmur, “So. Shall we dance?”

“Please,” he said. And though the Goddess wasn’t to be blamed, she had to be real. Casting a spell. How else could Byleth explain the genuine smile bursting across his cheeks?

 _At last,_ Sothis seemed to whisper.

* * *

  
Claude had pulled that divine Goddess spiel out of his sleeve. 

After all, the concept of faith was ridiculous. You have the earth to thank for your harvest. Cultural roots to ground you. A newborn life is delivered via motherhood, not the hands of Her Divine Holiness. Yet the world was wired to pray and plunder under the guise of a fairytale that offered nothing in return. 

Even the Church was built on the foundations of a half-joke.

If asked about it, he would sum up his feelings in one word: _Eh_. So long as they forewent his ambitions, they could worship a tomato and build altars for the vines.

So the force that had compelled him up the stairs wasn’t faith. It wasn’t faith that had trusted Dorothea's words. It wasn’t faith that had gotten him to watch the sky, to search for a resemblance while he’d waited.

It wasn’t faith, because he knew what it was.

“Teach,” he said.

“Hm?”

“Your smile,” in awe, “it’s…”

Different. Transformative. Breathtaking would be accurate. There was a world that Claude could hinge on the way it ruptured the moon to meld into a star.

What he managed to say: “It’s cute.”

Must’ve been a bolt of invisible lightning. And he thought Marianne choked up bad, but when was Teach _not_ setting an example?

Claude continued, “I think you should wear it more often.”

“But…” before falling back to, “I do smile.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but it’s never quite like this, one that’s entirely…”

 _Breathtaking._ “Special.”

“Is that so?”

“I know a genuine smile when I see it.” 

And he must be losing it, must have had one too many glasses of wine, for he was raising a hand to brush his thumb along the corner. Trace the edge. The line of his skin. Byleth’s eyes fell closed under his touch.

Go slower, one more time.

A crazy thought was coming to mind as the smile returned: Claude wanted to feel it in more ways than one.

“Claude…”

“Dance with me, Teach.”

They began with a stumble—par for the course. Not far from his best, according to Dorothea, and it didn't take long for Claude to agree. His idea of dancing involved grand, sweeping strokes to cheers of Almyrans and peals of laughter. His swaying with Teach screamed _easy prey_.

Hilarious, what Judith would likely say if she were to see him now.

But he had Teach, so who gave a damn what imaginary Judith thought?

There were other things to focus on. Such as how Byleth was sturdy, in ways both visible and invisible. How his fingers were holding Claude with assurance, comforting a heart that played sly on the surface to camouflage the bruises. 

Perhaps it had exposed itself one too many times. Perhaps it secretly held a tenderness, one that wished to be felt as much as it needed to be contained.

Perhaps Claude was a fool and Byleth was the reason.

He felt a brushing on his cheek. Byleth’s hair, swaying with the wind. His lashes were long—were they always that long?—and Claude wanted to see it closer, wanted to move closer. Just to confirm that Teach was there, and this was real.

Carefully, as if he were making a terrible mistake, he leaned into Byleth’s shoulder. The swaying didn’t slow. Almost natural, the way he fit perfectly, how the drumming of his pulse slowed to a calm.

And for all that was different about Byleth, all that Claude _couldn’t_ fit into a definable space, _he_ felt utterly natural. His body, his warmth. As if this were the missing piece Claude had been searching for. Patiently waiting within arm’s reach. His home beyond home.

Now that he found it, he wasn’t ready to let go. 

Byleth murmured in his ear, “Claude.”

“Byleth,” he answered.

He parted only to look. Byleth’s smile had disappeared. There were tiny creases below his eyes. His movements still ebbed the flow of time.

“It seems,” he began, “like it worked.”

Goddess—what did _actual_ lightning feel like?

And where, in all of Almyra, did Teach find that smirk? 

“What worked, now?”

His strike was fatal: “May I tell you of a scheme?”

* * *

The thoughts that ran through Claude’s head were as follows:

Maybe the Goddess _is_ real.

Could she break his facade like an arrow’s shaft?

Or was that just his dinner?

Or...was it Teach?

But this wasn’t Teach.

If it _was_ Teach, then how did he...did he truly just...Goddess, _Teach._

Do stars have blue eyes?

His throat constricted. One possible reason: Dorothea had stolen his poisons, poured some into his glass, and was cackling with a vendetta while watching him slip over his footing to the _easiest_ dance—which wasn’t even a dance—in the arms that had swept him across the hall and right out the door.

The thoughts clicked together. A noise escaped his throat. Not a dignified one, but it came with the conceding: “When did you...?” 

He was enjoying this, wasn’t he? “Did you fall for it?”

More like crashed headfirst into the stone. “Why, I believe I did,” Claude said. There was a realization to be found, somewhere in there. What could it be? _Similarities arise in the most surprising of ways?_

Here was a better one: don’t underestimate Teach. Or the sharpened jaw, or the walled eyes, or the lips that looked _awfully_ soft, maybe he should see how they—

“Claude?”

“Look at you. You pulled a fast one on me.”

A glimmer of joy—childlike, pure—flashing across his eyes, his lips. What else had Claude been missing?

“I can’t believe it worked,” he said softly. “Claude, I—I did it.”

“Tell me about it, Teach,” Claude encouraged. No reason to halt; their wave was about to crest. He resumed their swaying with, “And don’t spare any of the details.”

In Claude’s honest opinion, he was learning more than he deserved. But he wasn’t complaining—good fuel for schemes is hard to come by. Such as how a false moment of weakness over dancing (in the library, too? Teach was a _sneaky_ little devil) was to gather his thoughts and plant the seed. His decision to leave the hall: to spur a curious noble into action. Not even Dorothea had been spared.  
  


_“Do you think Claude would appreciate it here?”_

_“I can't guarantee it, but I believe so, yes.”_

_“Perhaps. But...perhaps it’s not suited for him.”_

_“I don’t think he’ll mind, Professor. So long as he has you.”_

_“But what if he fails to find me?”_

_“Wouldn’t he be by your side?”_

_“I believe you said ‘a surprise works best to win them over.’ ”_

_“Hm. I certainly did say that.”_

_“Dorothea...could you guide him here? Should the situation arise?”_

_“Why, certainly, Professor. I think I know just how to approach it.”_

“You’ve got to be _kidding,"_ Claude said, his feet forgetting how to move. “And if I hadn’t spoken to Dorothea? If I had stayed at the ball?”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Byleth said, suddenly the better dancer. 

“Can...can you see into the future?”

“Not quite.” The answer intrigued Claude, as if Byleth could only bend _half_ of time’s flow. But things _did_ seem to be slowing down, the strokes uneven. Maybe he was caught and he didn’t even know it.

His actual answer was better: “It’s because it’s you.”

Was that some sort of pickup line? Was Lysithea casting a curse on him? 

“I know your nature,” Byleth continued, as if Claude hadn't been studying _him_ for months on end. “Your curiosity. It’s a part of you, correct?”

“You could say that," he said.

“Dorothea told me.” Guess that was Claude's punishment for trusting a snake. Sharp tongue and hypnotizing gaze and _Seiros, does that make him a snake too?_ “Your eagerness is special. I...I enjoy seeing it. But I couldn’t resist…”

“Giving this noble what he deserves?”

“Seeing where it would lead you.” He stopped, too. “I’m glad it led you here to me.”

Claude felt something else stop. “Incredible,” he said. “You read me like a book.”

“I didn’t think,” and there was the shyness, the curls of modesty that Claude wished to sit and drink tea with on nights both warm and cold, “it would work. Many things could’ve gone south.”

That warranted a chuckle. “You sound like you’re planning for battle.”

“I suppose I can’t help it.”

“A tactician _and_ a schemer," Claude said. "Is there _anything_ you can’t do?”

“Er...dancing?”

“Why, I think I could practically kiss you right now.”

And time was definitely wrapped around Byleth’s finger—it stopped right as he did. He didn’t withdraw. Promising sign number one. His cheeks were quick to flush, fingers clawing into the sides of Claude’s waist like he was about to plummet out the aperture. 

...Was that promising sign number two?

“Claude,” he croaked. “What are you—”

“Sorry, did I startle you? I’m only cracking wise.” Then he threw his words aside to slowly, _carefully_ lean in, gauging the look on Byleth’s face, the speed of his breath. 

“After all,” he said, his voice lowering to the ground, “we shouldn’t let the Goddess see that, right?”

“I—no. No, of course not.”

“The monastery wouldn't accept it.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Or Jeralt.”

“Certainly not him.”

Softly, from above, a light with gentle hands. Must be the moon. Could be _her._

If so, then she said nothing as she took up the terrace to push Claude in. He felt the tower lose its meaning, the distance growing shorter. How his hands were in Byleth’s cloak, holding on, like he was the reason the clouds could finally part and a star could hold the name of a lost noble who believed not in faith, but in—

“Claude.”

The air was slashed. Claude felt it, felt his eyes open. Saw Byleth, blue and dark. Still breathtaking.

Except there was nothing else inside.

“Teach?” he said.

“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. There was a realization to be found, somewhere in there.

What was it? “I...I should go.”

“Leaving so soon?” he said. “Where are you off to?”

“The ball is waiting. I’m sure they’re waiting.”

He tilted his head. “What about our dance?”

“I…” 

He raised his hands. At first, to squeeze Claude’s fingers. The hope was false. Claude saw it coming, he wasn’t surprised. Their hands lowered to the floor. 

Until the _real_ fatal strike: “I don’t know.”

“Ah,” Claude said. Though he knew even less, “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

He bit his tongue first. Pushed a smile second. He couldn’t trust his heart, or his throat, or the thousands of arrows he was willing to shoot into the sky to make up for his questions. Where his intuition might have failed him. Whether this _was_ fate, whether she _was_ real, and if this was all a preordained scheme from the day he had held a certain teacup in the palm of his hand.

He didn’t do any of those things. He let the muscles in his face take over. The voice that wasn’t his.

“Eh, nothing to worry about. I’m sure we’ll get our moment. Some other time?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure of it too.”

Claude stepped back first. He gestured to Byleth, guiding him after. As if they were to continue dancing, and Claude could see the moon without feeling...hollow? Could people feel hollow in the chest?

He thought he could hear two voices speaking as he descended. The first was Teach’s. The second, on the other hand, seemed to be coming from the walls. Higher-pitched and delicate, like a higher power that had witnessed their moment and was now lamenting the outcome.

But that would imply faith. And faith, Claude was now sure, was nothing more than a scheme.

_"I’m sorry."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally made a twitter  
> <https://twitter.com/blahzor1>
> 
> come say hi! :)


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